That evening, not long after the women had been ushered into the laundry room, Cean-Sehohir made an appearance. Ignoring the indentures as they began to busy themselves with the laundry, he strode over to their watchful blue-collar. After a brief conversation with her, he called out a number and scanned the indentures for a response. The woman who bore the number he had called rose and bowed, keeping her head lowered as she awaited his instruction. Her skin had paled to alabaster and she fled the room at a nervous trot when Cean-Sehohir indicated for her to follow him.

Little more than five minutes later, the woman returned looking whiter than she had left. Silently, she resumed her duties as Cean-Sehohir called out another number. Cara busied herself with the clothes as, one by one, the indentures were called out only to return after five or ten minutes. Feeling dry-mouthed and tense with anxiety Cara heard her own number called out in Cean-Sehohir's native language. Following the lead of the others, she rose from her bench and bowed stiffly, waiting for his indication to follow him. This came in the form of a curt nod and Cara hurried after him, trying to match his striding pace.

Cean-Sehohir turned into a nearby classroom and closed the door behind Cara. He took a seat behind a large desk covered in neat piles of paper and indicated for Cara to stand before him.

"You are six-three-one." Cean-Sehohir began in English, his words a statement rather than a question.

"Yes, Cean-Sehohir," Cara whispered. Shame welled within her at granting Cean-Sehohir his title of Beast Master, for it seemed to Cara that in doing so, she was accepting her own status as a beast in his charge.

"Speak up when you answer me, girl." Cean-Sehohir drew a small pile of paper towards him and briefly scanned it before continuing. "Your efforts this past week leave a lot to be desired. You are timid and pliable enough, but you lack pro-action. You sit there in a nervous little cocoon letting the lessons wash over you, thinking it is enough to simply be there. I am here to tell you it is not."

Cean-Sehohir paused to judge the effects of his words. Cara's fingers pinched folds in her dress as she steadfastly refused to look up from a the floor.

"First off," Cean-Sehohir continued, "you are compliant with the exercise cross, you allow yourself to be tethered quietly, without fuss. This is in your favour. However, the timer is for the blue-collar or myself. It is not for you. Your effort is not to slacken until you are directed to. Is that clear?" Cean-Sehohir's unblinking blue eyes fixed on Cara as she continued to pinch at the material of her dress.

"Yes," Cara cleared her throat and raised her voice marginally before she could be chastised. "Yes, Cean-Sehohir."

"Your obedience in the shower is moderate, but I am pleased to see you rising to the responsibility of the laundry. Try to be more positive in allowing the indentures access to your body for cleaning." Cara gasped, about to challenge that this was scarcely possible, given her bonds, but thought better of it before the words could slip out.

"Your participation in the language lessons is slack to say the least. Of all of the indentures, you surely put in the least amount of effort. I expect to see serious improvement in this over the next week." Cara remained silent, her visage downcast and awaiting further castigation. It was not long in coming. "Your dressmaking is adequate, you followed the instructions well. Next week will test your ability to remember them, and work without continued instruction. With regard to your cleaning duties, it is not my job to stand over you to ensure you reach every last corner. That is your responsibility. Pull that stunt next week and you'll be feeling my crop an awful lot more. Have you anything to say?"

Cara swallowed the hard lump in her throat. There was much she would have liked to say in her defence, but did not have the courage to bring Cean-Sehohir's wrath upon her.

"Perhaps to say that I will do better, Cean-Sehohir?" Cara's reply as as much question as answer. She knew she had done herself no favours but could not deny anything Cean-Sehohir had said of her.

"You will do better, or you will be made to do better. There is little opportunity for you to do worse. Concentrate on your language and service. Remember, the time for leniency is well and truly over. Now, go!" The whole interview had barely taken four minutes, and Cean-Sehohir shooed Cara out in front of him as they both made their way back to the laundry room.

Cara resumed her position with the clothes for mending, but just as she was about to hiss a comment to seven-seven-four, Cean-Sehohir's voice boomed out that seven-seven-four was required. Cara's companion gave her an almost impercetible shrug and followed Cean-Sehohir from the laundry room. Wrapped in silent misery, Cara worked to mend a tear and thought over what Cean-Sehohir had said to her. How appropriate, she thought, sniffing to herself, that the Beast Master would refer to her allowing herself to be tethered quietly as a positive point in her favour. She could see now how fitting the title was, given how the indentures were herded, worked, fed and watered as cattle. Cara was still lost in her own thoughts when seven-seven-four returned looking pale and shaken. The atmosphere of quiet industry that had been present in this room for the past week was replaced by a tense and sombre silence, each indenture afraid to make eye contact with the others, for each was consumed by her own fears for her future.

Day seven arrived, and brought with it a change in routine. Cean-Sehohir and the other trainers were conspicuous by their absence, and the blue-collars were not slow to make their authority known. Rousing the indentures and guiding them through the first part of their day the sharp sound of crop stinging flesh was frequently heard each time one of the women delayed or hesitated. With vanished complacency, Cara felt as though she was being introduced to the training centre afresh, her stomach churning with anxiety. The blue-collars made no allowances for those who did not speak their tongue, and it was left to those who understood to lead by example. Miserably poor in the language class, Cara suffered more than her fair share of blows from the crop as she struggled to take her lead from those around her, and memory of the daily routine.

After their morning exercise and breakfast, Cara and her fellow indentures were ushered in for their shower. Although now practised in this chore, Cara found the ordeal more humiliating still, being conducted at the less-than-gentle hands of the blue-collars rather than by Cean-Sehohir. After the women had been washed and shaved, one blue-collar turned off the blissful steaming cascade of water and waited as the attendants dried off their charges. The blue-collar then took on Cean-Sehohir's role of checking the work of the indentures who had attended to the bound women. Cara watched with mounting panic as the blue-collar worked her way down the line towards Cara, checking each indenture meticulously, passing occasional comments and direction to those who had provided the cleaning service. Cara's mouth dried and a lump formed in her throat as the blue-collar reached her. She tried to bring her arms down to cover her chest, but succeeded only in half choking herself as the rope pulled up on her collar. The ropes at her ankles prevented any adjustment to her position and she closed her eyes, not wishing to watch the blue-collar studying her bare form.

When a hand reached out and trailed a finger underneath Cara's left breast, in the warm crease where it met her narrow ribcage, Cara yelped and pulled back strongly, only the rope connecting her arms to her collar via the ring above her  preventing her from falling backwards. A loud slap to her thigh reminded Cara that she must now tolerate all that the blue-collars chose to do to her and she stood still, her face turned sullenly away. The blue-collar snapped her fingers for Cara's attendant to return. Resuming her initial contact, she showed the hapless woman the moisture still resident in the crease, despite the woman's previous efforts with a towel. Following a hissed instruction, the mortified attendant wiped away the offending water, then made her way to the other chastised attendants, who would be dealt with by their own designated blue-collar.

As moisturiser was applied to Cara's increasingly tender shaved areas, she stifled a hiss of pain. The blue-collar's fingers did not move with the assured tenderness of Cean-Sehohir's, leaving Cara wondering if the roughness was merely another way in which the blue-collars could assert their authority over the Centre's trainees. The way in which a thumb ground itself into the sore flesh between her legs, pressing in against her public bone, had Cara convinced this must be the case. When the blue-collar finally moved on, leaving her with the burning sting of the moisturiser, Cara rested her forehead on her raised arms in relief.

 Released from their bonds and about to dress, the women were pleasantly surprised when the blue-collar indicated for them to put the shifts they had previously worn into the laundry basket, and dress themselves from a stack of fresh clothes. Gratefully slipping into the crisp material, Cara gathered together the wet dresses eagerly torn off by the attendants and added them to the basket. She shifted it onto her hip and awaited the instruction that permitted her to take the basket to the laundry room.

After the sleeping quarters had been cleaned out, the women were ushered outside, encouraged by the free use of the blue-collar's crop on the buttocks of the stragglers. Confused, having expected to be led to the classroom for another dismally difficult language lesson, Cara followed her companions. The weather was grizzly, with a damp wind blowing across the metalled surface. Her bare feet soon freezing and sore from loose pieces of grit, Cara huddled with seven-seven-four and the others as two men unloaded bales of straw from a trailer. The blue-collar went over to speak to another blue-collar who was already attending to the men, leaving the women in silent misery.

Cara now gained her first good look at the vast grounds of the training centre. The large brick building which housed them was only one small part of the extensive compound. Chainlink and barbed wire surrounded the building, the exercise shed and straw store, and an area of tarmac the size of a hockey pitch, and ensured the women could not wander far from their incarceration. Beyond this, and accessed only by an electronically controlled gate, the grounds took Cara's breath away. To the left of the compound's fence stood a long bank of greenhouses, stretching as far as the street on which she had grown up. Panning her eyes clockwise from the greenhouses, Cara took in several acres of land put to agricultural use, and a small orchard. Letting her gaze wander even further, a two storey L-shaped building dominated the landscape in front of her, with a tarred road leading from the main road beyond, up to the training block in which she was housed, with a vast car park stretching between the two. The purpose of the large building in the distance was beyond her fathoming, but with the ground floor of one wing being almost fully glazed, she guessed that at least part of it was open to the public, which also made sense of the large car park. 

The blue-collar having finished her conversation with the men unloading the straw, she returned her attention to her miserably huddled charges. Within moments a human chain was made, stretching from the open door of the straw barn to the large stack of bales deposited from the trailer. The men, their task now complete, climbed back into their vehicle and were escorted from the enclosure by their attending blue-collar, who locked the gate behind her and glided sedately towards the distant building.

One by one the bales of straw were hefted along the human chain until they were all in the shelter of the barn. Cara's work-toughened hands had cracked and chafed from handling the rough twine but she continued stoically, determined to pull her weight. Only once all the bales were neatly stacked inside the barn did the blue-collar permit the women some respite. Chivying them along, she ushered them back into the main building for their lunch.

After they had eaten, and the blue-collar had pronounced that she was satisfied with the women's efforts at cleaning the hall and kitchen areas, another change was in store. Their customary afternoon position training and sewing lesson was to be replaced by the first period of leisure time that Cara had experienced since her indenture. Led back out into the vast yard, Cara gasped in amazement at the sight. All the indentures and their attendant blue-collars were out in the space together. The drizzle had cleared up and the weak afternoon sunshine threatened to break through the thinning clouds, brightening more than just the countryside.

Throughout the yard the women had broken into loose groups; some were playing with balls and other sports equipment, some chatted animatedly and one group appeared to be playing charades, the exaggerated gesticulations eliciting wild shouts and bouts of laughter from the watching women. Everywhere she looked Cara saw smiles, laughter, and respite from the week just gone. Her face broke into a wide grin and she gripped seven-seven-four's wrist excitedly. Seven-seven-four wore a bemused expression, shared by many of the women in Cara's group, who didn't quite know what to make of the scene after the strict discipline and routine of the week.

"Off you go!" Encouraged the blue-collar, shooing them away and into the yard with her hands. "Make the most of it, it's not even two hours you have." Although she spoke in her own tongue, it was swiftly translated by an indenture near Cara, and the women nervously dispersed. Stall-mates Cara, seven-seven-four and five-nine-three linked elbows and walked slowly across the yard, keeping near the perimeter where they wouldn't interfere with the games and groups already in situ.

"Well what do you make of this then?" Cara asked, her enthusiasm brimming at the unexpected turn of events. Seven-seven-four shrugged, her gait still stiff from her whipping and colouring her appreciation.

"Can we really just talk, and do as we please?" Five-nine-three wanted to know. Her eyes darted constantly and her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

"It appears so, treasures," seven-seven-four entered into the spirit of the conversation. "I'm guessing this is needed as much by them as it is by us." She indicated with a nod of her head towards where a group of blue-collars watched the indentures with disinterest whilst conducting their own conversation. "So, let's make the most of it ladies!" She smiled at her two companions, an infectious grin that made all three relax as they drifted through the huddles of relaxed indentures.

"Five-nine-three, it occurs to me we know rather less about you, so why don't you start?" Seven-seven-four quizzed. Five-nine-three shook her head and looked at the ground shyly, but Cara leant her encouragement to the idea, and she gave in.

"Well, in a couple of months I'll be hitting the big four-oh," she started. Seven-seven-four squeezed her hand in encouragement.

"Oh, I remember that age well," she said, "be it a few years ago now!" Five-nine-three smiled her gratitude.

"In my time I've been mostly a mother and housewife, once the kids left home I worked as a cleaner but Brian - my husband - didn't really like me working. It didn't pay the bills after he died, and there was very little else I could do. I needed money, and a roof, and the local private school was offering indenture spaces. It seemed like a solution at the time."

"How long were you there treasure?" Seven-seven-four prompted.

"Three years of the seven I signed up for." Five-nine-three sighed. "They were three of the longest years of my life. I thought I could use the time to get my head together about Brian without needing to worry about bills and things. I don't know what was worse - the kids, or the staff."

"How did you get out?" Cara wanted to know.

"I was considered a... distraction for the older boys," five-nine-three fought for the right words. "The head agreed my departure and arranged for me to be put to auction. A dealer bought me, turned a quick profit as he sold me over the water to the auction where we were all purchased, and here you have me." She smiled apologetically. "Not an exciting story, but that's me I'm afraid." Seven-seven-four gave her a hug.

"It's more than good enough fer me," seven-seven-four said when she let her go. Cara squeezed five-nine-three's hand in support, not knowing what to say to the woman. With her youth and inexperience she felt inadequate when she heard the stories of the other women.

The three had stopped walking when five-nine-three began to relate her story, and were about to continue their meander about the yard when a nearby woman called out to them.

"Hey, you're Stage Ones, aren't you?" It was the first time they had heard the term and weren't sure how to respond.

"If you mean are we new here, then yes," seven-seven-four answered for the trio.

"Come and have a chat," they were encouraged. "What do you think of the place so far then?" There were four women in the group, and they all beckoned for Cara, seven-seven-four and five-nine-three to join them.

"Do they ever stop scrutinising you?" Cara couldn't help but ask.

"Not really, but you do learn to live with it, and they only pick you up on things you do wrong." The four women made room for the three newcomers, as they huddled in a loose circle to talk.

"How does it work? This place, I mean. What was it you called us?" Cara surprised herself with her questions, but then she found a lot about herself being surprising recently.

"Stage Ones," the woman continued. "I'm eight-nine-seven by the way." Her accent bore a slight tang, and Cara guessed she was native to the country, unlike herself. "It's a four month training programme, where you spend a month at each stage. If Cean-Sehohir is happy with you, you get to move up to the next stage. You start off as Stage Ones, learning the routine, who is who, how to behave and fit in and so on. When you're Stage Twos, they are a bit harder on you, you're expected to know a lot better than in your first month. Your third month is your last real training month, and it's at the end of this that you stand your greatest chance of being dropped back a month. Stage Fours are the lucky ones, less training, more showing off, and at the end of it - hopefully, anyway! - you get sold to a proper home." Cara tried to digest this information.

"That means we'll be here four months?"

"Minimum. You're in with the best now, they have a reputation to maintain don't you know?" Seven-seven-four raised her eyebrows, a silent request for more information.

"Oh yes, congratulations, you have been purchased by the world-reknowned Whelan Centre for Indenture Training," eight-nine-seven gave the Centre its full title in English. "Here you will be polished into the best indenture you can be, to serve, obey and please." The way in which she said these words, and the knowing nods from the other three experienced trainees gave Cara a clue that she would hear this phrase again at a later point.

"You want my advice," a stronger lilting accent continued, "do all in your power to please Cean-Sehohir and the blue-collars. They're your passport." The others nodded again.

"So what is Cean-Sehohir?" Asked five-nine-three. "To this place, I mean."

"Who've you got?"

"I don't know his name, he's short and stocky, ponytail and a goatee beard."

"And strong." Seven-seven-four interjected.

"Ahhh," eight-nine-seven responded. "You have the Cean-Sehohir. He owns this place, worked his way up from the bottom so rumour has it, and definitely  not a man to be crossed. But all the trainers are called Cean-Sehohir: In the field of horse racing it means trainer, but in our field it means beast-master." Cara and her companions fell silent, digesting this information. Just then, a bell clamoured loudly from the other end of the yard.

"Thank you," seven-seven-four linked elbows with her two friends again. "We'll bear all you have said in mind." They followed as each set of trainees went to line up in front of their respective blue-collars and waited for go back inside.

"Day Six," muttered Cara as she rose to the now-familiar rattling of the metal doors to the stalls. The minute the women had lined up though, there was a sense of anticipation. Each woman seemed to be under greater scrutiny from the blue-collars and, worse, from Cean-Sehohir. Cara shuddered as came under Cean-Sehohir's gaze, looking each of his indentures up and down before moving them on.

It was obvious that something was different about today when Cean-Sehohir remained with them in the exercise shed. He shackled them to the wooden crossbeams and handed their care over to a blue-collar as usual, but then seated himself at the far end of the shed. Every so often, he would get the blue-collar to draw the indentures to a halt, and he would use a small scanner to read one of their microchips, before allowing them to continue with their exercise. When Cean-Sehohir scanned the shoulder of the woman in front of her, Cara was able to get a good look at the device. On the back of the scanner itself there was a dark screen which, after scanning an indenture, Cean-Sehohir would study intently before returning to his seat and tapping away with a stylus for several minutes. By the end of the exercise period, all of the women had been scanned and studied by Cean-Sehohir.

Breakfast proved less stressful, giving Cara a chance to savour the sweet fruit. As always, they ate in silence with Cean-Sehohir watching over them, a blue-collar kneeling by his side. Cara never failed to be amazed by the grace and serenity demonstrated by the blue-collar each morning. She would kneel motionless, seemingly elsewhere in her own mind, yet at the merest flicker of Cean-Sehohir's fingers she would rise elegantly to her feet to do his bidding. They rarely spoke, except to give an instruction or admonish an indenture, so Puisin was the only blue-collar Cara could name. She had grown adept at recognising them facially, though, and knew that this particular blue-collar was not one to be crossed.

In the large, white-tiled shower room Cara became acutely aware that Cean-Sehohir's scrutiny was once again upon them. There was little rebellion now at the way in which the showers were conducted, each woman having learned for herself that there was an easy way to get through this daily ordeal. With Cean-Sehohir happy that his indentures were securely bound, he called in their black-collared attendants and stood back to make mental notes.

Cara's attendant fussed over her, gently applying the shampoo, soap and razor in turn. As the last of the suds rinsed from her body and the water ceased its steamy cascade over her flesh, Cara sighed. I'd give anything to be able to wash myself, she thought, but this has got to be one of the best parts of the day. Indeed there were many who shared this sentiment, given that all that was required of them was to stand under deliciously hot water and do nothing.

When the attendants had towelled their charges dry, Cean-Sehohir moved in to examine each indenture. Cara, in the middle of the line, had to wait patiently for her turn. He was being much more thorough with each woman, she thought. This was confirmed when he reached her and ran his fingers through her hair, tracing the line of her spine to where her buttocks, still flushed pink from the hot water, parted. He studied her shaved areas and applied a soothing lotion between her legs. Cara's only concession to her pride was to close her eyes and turn her head away slightly until he had finished. Instead of moving straight on to the next indenture, Cean-Sehohir ran his hand down the outside of Cara's thigh, to her knee, then down her shin, as one might run their hand down a horse's foreleg. Apparently satisfied, he stood abruptly, gave Cara two hearty claps on her thigh and nodded his approval before moving on.

Released from her bonds and dressed once more, Cara picked up the laundry basket of wet dresses and waited to be dismissed by Cean-Sehohir. She no longer needed to be told that this was her duty, and Cean-Sehohir soon met her eye and sent her to the laundry room with a slight flick of his hand. After the first day, she was no longer accompanied by a blue-collar. Hefting the laundry basket on her hip, Cara took a deep breath and let it out with a smile, relishing her only moment of peace and solitude. She padded down the corridor, surprised by how familiar it felt already even though less than a week had passed since she first walked through the centre's door. Her life before that moment seemed more distant than ever, and Cara wondered at how quickly a person could become institutionalised in such an environment where every minute of the day's routine was dictated for her. Leaving the laundry as she had been shown, Cara made her way back to the sleeping quarters. Her bow as she approached Cean-Sehohir was performed almost before she knew she was doing it. Another surprise, she thought to herself with a wry smile, slipping through the doorway to the stalls.

Cean-Sehohir's examination of the results of the women's efforts was more intense than usual. Cara stood with the seven-seven-four and five-nine-three, hoping they had done enough to pass inspection. Again, Cean-Sehohir had the scanner with him and tapped periodically at the screen with his stylus. Before moving on to the next stall, Cean-Sehohir turned his attention to the women. Cara pulled herself up straight, her eyes dutifully lowered, and refused to allow her rising panic to betray her. Only when Cean-Sehohir pocketed his scanner and moved to the next stall did she relax, and realised she had been holding her breath.

Only minor faults were found with two stalls, and all too soon Cara found herself seated in the classroom, desperately trying to remember yesterday's language lesson. As Cean-Sehohir docked his scanner to a computer in the corner of the classroom, a blue-collar conducted a quick revision of the language covered in the past few days. Cara's relief at this group work was to be short-lived, and her mouth went dry when Cean-Sehohir bid the blue-collar take a seat at the computer whilst he led the lesson.

"Stand," He instructed in his own language, and pointed at a number that had been written up on the board behind him. Cara rose unsteadily to her feet, every drop of moisture having drained from her mouth.

"Ocho, Cean-Sehohir," Cara finally stammered. Cean-Sehohir's crop whistled down to thrash the desk in front of Cara. Terrified, she flinched away, almost falling back into the chair behind her. "No, no, it's-" Cara paused, thinking desperately, her eyes flying from left to right as she processed the numbers she had been taught. "It's shacht." She raised her eyes to Cean-Sehohir, her whole face pleading for him to say she was right. A curt nod told her she was, but her ordeal was not over. She was grilled on several numbers, colours and basic phrases that had been taught that week. After what felt like eternity to Cara, but was only a little more than five minutes, Cean-Sehohir allowed Cara to sink back into her seat and moved on to her neighbour.

Hearing the others being drilled in the same manner, Cara willed her companions to do better than she. Each time the crop was brought down on a wooden desk, she flinched and prayed for the lesson to end. Unwilling to risk bringing Cean-Sehohir's wrath down on her, Cara stayed facing the front as those behind her were quizzed on their knowledge. Because of this, her gaze wandered to the blue-collar sat at the computer in the corner of the room. Each time an indenture responded to Cean-Sehohir's question, the blue-collar would enter something onto the computer. Cara made a mental note to mention this to seven-seven-four at lunch. She wasn't sure what it was in aid of, but she was pretty sure the whole day was an assessment of sorts.

There was little opportunity to glean information about the training centre, but if anything could be learned, the dining hall would be the place for it. On this day, however, lunch came and went in prickly silence. The atmosphere pulsed with nervous anticipation which did not diminish even after the other groups of indentures had left the hall and Cara's group remained to clean up. During the position training that followed, Cara was frequently criticised for hunching her shoulders and being tense. Her shoulder blades and arms stung from the rough taps she had received from Cean-Sehohir's crop but her rational mind could not override the gnawing panic rising in the pit of her stomach. The barked orders seemed to swim to her through treacle, making her slow to translate and react. She was grateful not to be at the front for this lesson, for without the others ahead of her, Cara would have been lost.

The final lesson of the day, sewing, raised some much-needed cheer among the women. The final touches were put to their dresses, and the women shared looks of contained excitement. All week Cara had longed to wear something other than the dress she had been given at the indenture centre, below the court where she had been sentenced. As clean as she was after her shower each morning, she knew how she and the others had begun to smell, the sweat from their exercise and exertions saturating the coarse cloth.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" the blue-collar translated her own words so all the women would understand her. "Try them on!" Cara and seven-seven-four exchanged tentative glances, but when they saw this was really an order in disguise, Cara reached down and shyly raised the hem of her dress. She hauled it off and wriggled straight into her new one - a decent enough fit, she thought, if a little long for her short frame. The crisp material felt cool against her skin and she couldn't resist stroking it against her body, revelling in its newness.

"There's something we won't get too often," hissed seven-seven-four, proudly examining herself in her own new shift dress, "but the real question is..." Seven-seven-four waited for Cara's full attention before continuing in a loud whisper, "does my bum look big in this?" Despite herself, Cara's face crumpled into stifled laughter, her eyes screwed tight and she had to brace herself against a chuckling seven-seven-four. Some of Cara's nearest neighbours had caught seven-seven-four's comment and also laughed softly. The mood of the whole room was refreshingly light after the tension and anticipation of the morning and for once, this brief respite from the usual rules of conduct seemed to be endorsed by the blue-collar and Cean-Sehohir, who Cara could have sworn was almost smiling himself.

The third day seemed to pass as though a lifelong routine. On the fourth, two things happened that jolted Cara's acceptance of the regime.

Cara had already been awake for two hours with stomach cramps when she heard the rollerdoors clatter open. With no underwear or protection, her period was something she had been dreading having and now, here it was. She wasn't aware of any of the others in her group having started their periods so was terrified of mentioning it. Her worst fears were confirmed when they toileted that morning, and she grabbed seven-seven-four by the wrist.

"What am I going to do? I've started," Cara hissed. Seven-seven-four looked at her quizzically for a second and then realisation dawned and she rubbed Cara's arm to reassure her.

"You're going to have to tell him, treasure. They must have something for you - you won't be the first!" Cara returned seven-seven-four's wan smile then tried to work out how she was going to approach Cean-Sehohir. She waited until he had called her half of the group out and was observing the second half, then took a step towards him, away from the line of black-collars. She stood as she had been taught, adopting the 'Stand' pose rather than the waiting posture. She had almost convinced herself that Cean-Sehohir had not noticed, when he turned towards her and stood with his face mere inches from hers.

"Speak," he demanded in a low voice, his teeth gritted. Cara almost lost her nerve, but knew she had come too far to back down now. She lowered her eyes but Cean-Sehohir was so close she could not see the floor. She stumbled over the phrase in his language that she had been taught to say before making any request of a trainer, her mouth dry and her tongue refusing to obey.

"Please, Cean-Sehohir," she continued in English, "I've started my period, have you anything I can use?" Her voice trailled into a hoarse whisper and she felt the heat rising in her face, certain her cheeks would be crimson. Cean-Sehohir reacted as though the request was made every day, and led Cara to a low, locked cupboard.

"Ever been pregnant?" He asked her. Mutely, Cara shook her head.

"No, Cean-Sehohir." She confirmed, when she realised he was waiting for her to answer as she had been trained. He withdrew from the cupboard a steri-sealed clear plastic bag containing a small, translucent silicone cup.

"Have you ever used one of these before?"

"No, Cean-Sehohir." Cara glanced around and saw all eyes were on her exchange with Cean-Sehohir. He took the opportunity to demonstrate how the cup was used to the whole group, much to Cara's dismay. He showed how it folded vertically and should be inserted, then bid Cara to remove it from the packaging and put the cup in. With rising humiliation, Cara was slow to obey, until Cean-Sehohir removed his crop from his belt and tapped the backs of her knees.

"Bend here," he instructed, "and here." He tapped Cara's waist. Not hard enough to physically hurt, but Cara's wounded pride took the taps hard. Cean-Sehohir took the wrapping from her, and studied her closely as Cara folded the silicone as she had been shown. She fumbled the entry a couple of times, the rubber springing open from her shaking fingers. Finally, she had inserted the whole cup.

"Run your finger all the way around it, make sure it is fully open and forms a good seal." Cean-Sehohir watched as Cara fought to keep her tears from spilling over, but did as she was bid.

"Let's make sure you've put it in the right place," he said and, before Cara could object, he thrust a hand between her legs, where she still had her dress hitched up to the top of her thighs, and pushed a finger inside her. Cara squealed and tried to pull back but Cean-Sehohir grasped her wrist with his left hand and twisted it behind her back, holding it high enough to cause her pain when she struggled against his rigid embrace, pulling her towards him. Unable to dam her tears any longer, Cara broke into quiet sobs. She didn't dare struggle as she felt his probing, pushing finger exploring within her, and sagged against her twisted arm. Her head dropped down, eyes closed, her chest heaving raggedly. She barely noticed when his grip ceased to pinch her wrist, or when his finger withdrew, leaving her to stand alone, shaking.

"Stand up straight, girl," Cean-Sehohir growled. "You put it in fine, I see no reason for you to get upset." Cara barely heard him, so lost was she in her inability to fight this latest indignity. "Empty and wash it each time you go to the toilet... are you listening to me?" Cean-Sehohir raised Cara's head with a crooked finger. With huge effort, Cara opened her eyes and tried to concentrate on what Cean-Sehohir was telling her.

"Y-yes, Cean-Sehohir."

"To remove it, push down as though urinating. Insert your finger and thumb and when you have a firm grip of it, pull it straight out. Empty it in the toilet, wash it carefully, and re-use it. When you have finished your period completely, tell me and I will take it back for sterilising. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Cean-Sehohir." Cara's voice was barely a whisper. She no longer tried to stop the flood of tears that ran, one after the other, down her cheeks. Cean-Sehohir nodded abruptly.

"Wash your hands then join the end of the line." With that, his attention was immediately on the other women, who jumped to form a line.

Scrubbing her hands fiercely under the scalding water, Cara couldn't believe how quickly Cean-Sehohir had dismissed the episode and moved on, as if it were completely normal. His actions had brought home her situation more clearly than any amount of training. That he could touch her like that, just because he wanted to - and she let him. Not just her, but the other women had also stood on silently, horrified witnesses of Cara's ordeal. How could he think nothing of it like that, and simply carry on? Cara ran the cold water and splashed it on her face, before rejoining the line.

Cara moved through the day's routine as though sleepwalking. Aside from her muddle of emotions about what had happened that morning, her stomach ached and she longed to be able to take painkillers. Too terrified to ask, she stumbled on.

She moved through the position training gingerly and her posture was frequently criticised, as was the tension in her upper body. Seven-seven-four was in the row behind Cara so Cara didn't see, only heard, when seven-seven-four resisted Cean-Sehohir's touch as he adjusted her stance. At the sound of the crop being brought down hard onto soft flesh, Cara exchanged terrified glances with the woman to her right but did not dare to turn around. Seven-seven-four did not make a sound but kept her eyes on Cean-Sehohir's, her mouth twitching with anger and her nostrils flaring as she dragged in her breath. Cean-Sehohir give seven-seven-four a vicious backhanded slap across her face, his ring catching her cheek and grazing it. Seven-seven-four reeled under the blow but did not concede to him. Bringing her head back level with his, she continued to stare him out.

Still too terrified of the consequences of breaking position, the remaining women did not dare to turn to see what was happening. Cara watched the face of the blue-collar who demonstrated the positions at the front and saw no shock, just sadness. Like the other women, she continued to hold her position, but every so often her gaze would drift to seven-seven-four and Cean-Sehohir.

Cean-Sehohir refused to lose a battle of wills against an indenture. He lifted his right hand up and grabbed a strong fistful of seven-seven-four's hair at the back of her head. She gave an involuntary hiss as he pulled her head back, then pushed it forward so that seven-seven-four was bent over at the waist. He led her in this way around the front of the group, to a piece of wooden apparatus stored against the side wall. Seven-seven-four tried to pry his fingers out of her hair, but he gave her a peremptory shake and pushed her forward. At the base of the apparatus was a raised wooden platform, deeper than seven-seven-four's bare feet. As soon as she stepped onto this platform, her feet slid apart and fell several inches as two sprung trapdoors gave way under her weight. When seven-seven-four struggled to pull her feet out, the doors held firm against her ankles.

Distracted and struggling to maintain her balance, seven-seven-four fought only weakly when Cean-Sehohir pinched her wrists together with one hand and, with the other, deftly wrapped a length of wide strapping cord around them. The cord went up to a pulley at the top of the wooden frame, and came down to an anchor point to one side. Cean-Sehohir released it from its anchor and pulled it taut, securing seven-seven-four's arms high in the air behind her. The pressure bent seven-seven-four forward, her stomach resting on the horizontal board before her. She tried to move her fingers, to gain some leeway, but there was no slack in the strapping and her arms were painfully high. Cean-Sehohir rode up seven-seven-four's dress and tucked it into where her arms pinched against her back, exposing her flesh from midway up her back, down to her ankles.

The blue-collar still maintained her waiting position, but Cara and the other women were unable to contain their horror and watched openly as Cean-Sehohir unhooked a single-tailed whip from the side of the wooden frame. The tail itself was about twice the length of the crop, with a heavy, tapered handle. He moved to seven-seven-four's left, and hefted the whip in his right hand. He seemed unperturbed that the women were concentrating on seven-seven-four's punishment, indeed almost seemed to be playing to the audience by making sure they had a good view.

Cean-Sehohir drew his hand back, raising the whip above shoulder height, then released it with some force. It hummed through the air then cracked loudly. Cara jumped, and saw seven-seven-four also lurched against the wooden frame, though the tail had struck nothing. Cean-Sehohir shifted his grip on the handle and nodded to himself, then raised the whip again. This time, he brought it down firmly across seven-seven-four's buttocks, which leapt under the sting and she jerked again, trying to free her ankles. The white line left by the tail soon turned into a raised red weal, but not before it was joined by another. Each time, Cean-Sehohir brought the tail down on a different area, a flick of his wrist determining the sting with which the lash landed.

By the seventh blow, seven-seven-four stopped flinching. By the ninth, she could no longer maintain her silence and let out a half-sob, half-squeal as her bladder emptied and hot urine splashed down her legs. After the tenth, Cean-Sehohir put his fingers under her chin and lifted her face to meet his. Seven-seven-four shook her head free of his fingers and resolutely looked away. Cean-Sehohir resumed his position and raised his arm again. This time, the length of the tail did not meet seven-seven-four's body, for he flicked his wrist, cracking the whip a mere fraction away from her skin. The tip of the lash opened up a small cut on seven-seven-four's back and she thrashed violently against her restraints. The next strike opened up a similar slice on the inside of her left thigh. Seven-seven-four gave a barking cough and retched. Cean-Sehohir landed a further cut on seven-seven-four's right buttock, near to where the first lash had landed. Seven-seven-four retched again, and watery vomit spilled from her mouth. Cean-Sehohir waited for her to finish then when she slumped, spent, against the frame he turned her face towards him again. This time, there was no resistance.

Satisfied, Cean-Sehohir gave the blue-collar an instruction and she broke position, bowed to him and glided out of the room. Moments later, she returned flanked by Puisin and another blue-collar, who went to attend to seven-seven-four. They carried with them small bags of medical treatments, and Cara watched as they ministered this with practiced ease and acceptance. Meanwhile, Cean-Sehohir retook his place before the women and snapped his fingers twice. The blue-collar returned to his side and resumed the waiting position, the position adopted before she had been sent to fetch seven-seven-four's assistance.

What little remained of the lesson time was spent completing the postures, before Cean-Sehohir led the women out. Cara was distraught at leaving seven-seven-four behind, but a glance as she was shepherded out of the door told her that the blue-collars were treating her well.

Once the blue-collar locked the sleeping stall's rollerdoor that evening, the women crowded around seven-seven-four. She was sleeping fitfully on her stomach, but opened her eyes when she heard the door rattle shut. Cara squeezed through the cluster of women and sank to her knees beside seven-seven-four, stroking her hair. Eleven voices clamoured to know how she was, and seven-seven-four struggled to prop herself up on her elbow.

"Don't worry 'bout me," seven-seven-four slurred. "I'll live. Just pay heed; it's really not worth it." She rested her forehead on her arm and closed her eyes. Cara continued to stroke her hair as the others murmured their well-wishes and crept to their own stalls.

The third woman who shared Cara and seven-seven-four's stall was five-nine-three: a quiet, self-contained woman approaching middle-age with as much grace as her position allowed. Until now, she had kept her distance from the others, and slept away from Cara and seven-seven-four. Now, she knelt next to seven-seven-four and held her hand. The simple kindness of the women moved seven-seven-four to silent tears that trickled unheeded to the blanket beneath her face.

"How bad is it?" Cara whispered, lying down carefully beside seven-seven-four. Five-nine-three did the same the other side of her, still stroking her hand.

"The painkillers are beginning to wear off now," seven-seven-four replied. "They didn't half knock me out when I first took them."

"Did those women look after you ok?" Five-nine-three wanted to know. Seven-seven-four nodded, her eyes clenched in an effort to still the tears.

"They were very good, gave me painkillers and dressed it up a bit. Got me back here, between the three of 'em, then left me to it. Guess they figured I wouldn't be going anywhere." Seven-seven-four snorted. "Not that there would be anywhere to go, even if I was in a fit state." Cara continued to stroke seven-seven-four's hair.

"You don't have to tell us, but... what happened?"

"Nothing I shouldn't've been prepared for. It was just the way he came up behind me, put his hand round my throat and his knee between..." seven-seven-four tried to swallow the lump that constricted her throat. "It reminded me of something a previous owner used to do. That, and when he touched you this morning, treasure." Seven-seven-four found Cara's hand with her free one and gave it a squeeze. "I guess I just clean forgot he can do what he likes with any of us." Cara scrubbed fiercely at her eyes and kissed the back of seven-seven-four's shoulder.

"I hate him. He shouldn't be allowed to do things like that."

"Sshhh treasure, don't you go getting yourself all upset now, he's not exactly top of my Christmas card list either right now, but we're just going to keep our heads down and get through the next few weeks. We won't be here forever." Cara sighed and tugged the blanket over her, trying to ignore the sharp straw working its way through the weave. Silence descended on the stalls once more, but it was several hours before all the occupants found freedom in sleep.

The next morning, the women struggled to rise. The cold and routine was taking its toll, and few had slept well that night. Cara, who had dozed fitfully until falling into a deeper sleep a short while before they were woken, rubbed fiercely at her eyes and staggered into line. On seeing Cean-Sehohir, she shivered violently in the knowledge of what he was capable of. She kept close to seven-seven-four and noticed many of the others also forming a protective huddle around her. Seven-seven-four had struggled to rise, only managing by holding on to the wooden stall partitions. Once upright, she shuffled along with a grimace, her eyes avoiding Cean-Sehohir with great deliberation.

Cean-Sehohir seemed not to notice that the women were more subdued and nervous throughout the day and drove them through the routine of exercise, lessons, eating and cleaning without a qualm. Cara was surprised to see that he neither favoured nor victimised seven-seven-four and at supper that evening she mentioned this, to find seven-seven-four in complete agreement.

"Much as I hate to say it, treasure," Seven-seven-four confided, "it's usually the sign of someone being good at this job, if they can do that. What yer don't need, after..." she tailed off, shifting uncomfortably. "Well, after something like yesterday, is to be treated different. Maybe I stand some chance of not being written off just yet." She sighed, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. Cara tentatively stroked seven-seven-four's arm with her fingertips, dismayed when the woman flinched at her touch.

A million thoughts flew through Cara's mind that night as she settled in the straw of her stall. The past two days had felt like a living nightmare, and yet there was something comforting about the routine. As hard as the work was, it was the lessons Cara felt most anxious about. Knowing she was being observed so closely made her go to pieces, causing mistakes where she otherwise would not make them. Her language skills had never been very good either, and she had difficulty remembering all she had been taught so far.

Cara was not the only one to be still awake; seven-seven-four lay facing the wooden stall panel, her eyes refusing to close. In all her time as an indenture she had never faced anything as structured and enforced as this routine.

In her first home, seven-seven-four had more or less been able to create her own routine. She knew the tasks to which she was assigned and was allowed to achieve them in her own way. Somehow, it seemed to lessen the impact of the indenture and her mind had resolved to it more easily. There had been no formal training or lessons, she had learned to meet her owner's standards through trial and error.

She recalled with a small smile the way he had placed little value on items such as bleach and cleansers, yet was fastidious about things she felt ought to matter less, such as whether his ornaments had been lined up with mathematical precision. Her hip still reminded her occasionally of the punishments she had incurred for not having exactly equal amounts of bedspread hanging from each side of the bed, or for not lining up the pillows perfectly.

She compared those days to her experiences since arriving at the training centre. She had heard of such places, and had spoken with indentures who had attended and survived them. Though none would go into detail about the methods employed, she had gained the distinct impression that she was glad to have avoided such places.

She listened now to the sounds of the others as they lay, some sleeping, some still wide awake, in their stalls. No-one cried. This surprised her; she had felt like breaking into tears herself at several points over the last couple of days.

At seventeen, one-eight-five was the youngest of the indentures in the group. She lay huddled in the next stall along from Cara and seven-seven-four, hugging her knees for comfort. She had found the lessons of the past two days to be brutally hard and had been reprimanded on several occasions for failing to obey quickly enough, or for not doing a job to the satisfaction of Cean-Sehohir. Like Cara, this was her first experience of indenture.

She had left school when she was fifteen, shortly after her parents' marriage had broken down and her mother had left. She kept house for her father and older brother, soon tiring of seeing her friends from school growing up and moving on, starting lives of their own, and mentioned this one day to her brother. He in turn had told their father, who had hauled one-eight-five over his knee and thrashed her until she promised to abandon thoughts of leaving.

Not long after this, one-eight-five resolved she would run away and find her own life. Creeping downstairs in the middle of the night, a small backpack crammed full of her clothes and what little she held dear, she paused to listen. On hearing nothing, she crept into the kitchen in the dark, afraid to put a light on for fear of disturbing her father or brother.

She had almost reached the back door when a growl rose from behind her and chair legs squealed on the stone floor.

"I thought you might try something like this," her father bellowed, grabbing one-eight-five by the arm and thrusting her back across the room, away from the door. "So I thought I'd wait for you, just in case. Well, if you're determined to go, I'll not stop you - in fact, I'll even help you." He hunched over one-eight-five, who lay where she had fallen. Her father's sour breath repulsed her and she tried to wriggle away but he grasped the back of her neck in a vice-like grip and frogmarched her to the cellar door.

Pushing her inside, he slammed the door shut and one-eight-five heard the key turn in the lock. She scrabbled at the handle, twisting the knob, pushing against the door with all her strength, but her legs refused to support her any longer and she sank to the steps. Her breath came in ragged sobs as she pleaded with her father that she would stay as long as he and her brother needed her, that she was sorry, and begged his forgiveness.

Hearing her father's boots stomping up the stairs to his bedroom, then get kicked off and bounce on the floor, one-eight-five knew she could not make amends that night. She slowly descended the stairs into the cellar, not bothering to flick the light switch as they had never replaced the bulb when it broke a year before. She curled up in an old armchair there, trying to ignore the damp that seeped through. Pulling her jacket tighter about her, she waited out the night without sleeping.

True to his word, her father had indeed helped her to leave the next day. First thing in the morning he had taken her down to the indenture centre and signed the release papers. That had been just over a week before, and she now hugged her knees even tighter, pulling her dress down as far as it would go. She knew her father and brother had changed after her mother left, almost as though they blamed her for being the only remaining female in the household, but she had no idea how little she really meant to them.

One-eight-five had not seen her father as he had stood in the audience, anxiously waiting for her scheduled auction to start so he could buy her back, hoping to have given her just enough of a fright to make her grateful for what she had back home, and to lessen her desire to leave as her mother had done so he would not have to lose his only daughter as well as his wife. Nor had one-eight-five seen the haunted look on his face when the bidding rose far beyond what her father could possibly afford, or how he had broken down when he had to return home alone and tell his son what he had done. All one-eight-five could do now was to take each hour, each day, as they were presented to her, and to try to stay alive.

Cara woke the next morning to the sound of the metal rollerdoors being raised, surprised at having slept through the night. Rubbing her eyes, she stood and lined up with the others, waiting for the door to their sleeping chamber to be raised. Cean-Sehohir stood the other side of the door, watching as the black-collars from the three other chambers lined up and were led out first, then raised the door for his own indentures.

The queue for the latrines stretched down the corridor, and Cean-Sehohir stopped his charges at the end. As they waited their turn, Cean-Sehohir inspected his line as the other trainers inspected theirs, adjusting stance and posture until he was satisfied that all were correct. Cara estimated that each group of charges took about five minutes, and was relieved when her turn finally came. The cold of the corridor had finally got to her.

Five minutes later, Cara had freshened up with a splash of cold water, and had dragged a brush quickly through her hair. There were no mirrors, so she did the best she could. As she followed Cean-Sehohir out of the building and across the yard to the shed where they were exercised yesterday, Cara tried to take in more details of her surroundings. Yesterday's early mist had made it difficult to see any distance, but this morning the late April sunshine had burned all bar the last wisps away.

Behind her, the vast single-storey training centre hunkered down into the landscape, sheltering from the scrappy wind in the lee of a rocky slope. Ahead lay smaller stone buildings: the exercise shed and the straw storage. To her right, Cara could see a vast expanse of metalled yard, a sturdy perimeter fence enclosing the yard and all its buildings. The fence was topped with inward-facing metal spikes and lethal-looking wire. At various points, yellow warnings advised of an electric current. Beyond the fence, Cara could see a car park and a large, 'L' shaped two-storey building, and further down some trees and worked fields. Before she had a chance to study these further, Cara was inside the exercise shed. The door slammed, bringing her attention back to the present, and she shuddered as she caught sight of the chains hanging from the wooden beams again.

As yesterday, Cara's anxiety rose to nausea but she allowed herself to be led to the beam. She still couldn't bring herself to keep her eyes open as Cean-Sehohir tugged the D-ring of her collar and the padlock stole the last illusion of her freedom. This time, Cara was in the middle of the beam, flanked by two women she hadn't yet spoken to, but who had seemed friendly enough. Giving an encouraging push to the end of one of the beams, Cean-Sehohir set them off on their exercise, then wound the timer and replaced it on the wall. As if on cue, a tap came at the door and Cean-Sehohir admitted a blue-collar.

The hour passed slowly, the only sound the shuffle of the women's feet on the wooden floor and the occasional creak from the apparatus to which they were tethered. Cara found whole chunks of time passed without her realising, as she retreated into her own thoughts. Although she still grieved for her father and brother, Cara had never been one for self-pity; her anxieties arose mainly, she assumed, from not knowing what the future would hold, and being unable to effect any control over what happened to her. That someone could take a crop to her as easily as look at her, whether it was justified or not, and that Cara could make no protest scared her. This was natural, she told herself, but so many lived with it that there had to be a way of dealing with the fear it brought, to make it manageable on a day to day level. She made a mental note to ask seven-seven-four how she had dealt with it for so long.

Still lost in thought, Cara jumped when the timer sounded. This time, although a few women cast a glance at the blue-collar, they made no attempt to stop walking, and it was several more minutes before Cean-Sehohir returned to the shed. Released one by one from their metal tethers, they lined up to be taken to breakfast.

The day passed much as the first, though Cara noticed that all the women appeared much more subdued, as indeed she herself felt. It was not yet acceptance, more that their horror from yesterday was numbed by time and experience, making today's ordeal seem somehow more bearable. Almost in a daze, Cara endured the showers; she struggled hard to remember the words from yesterday's language lesson, but enjoyed the dress-making. Time had not dulled the humiliation of the posture training, but she worked to exorcise her feelings by throwing herself wholeheartedly into the cleaning tasks. They ate well again that day, and by the time the laundry was finished and they were locked in their sleeping stalls for the night, Cara felt she might just have the strength to get through the next five years after all.

The female trainer turned from her conversation with Cean-Sehohir and her colleagues and checked to see whether her indentures had finished their food. Seeing none of her women still eating, she rose and stood at the head of the table, then spoke some words Cara didn't understand. The women at the table clearly did, for they rose with their plates and cutlery and filed to the hatch, depositing them in neat piles. Each woman then took a clean dish from a stack, and a spoon from the cutlery trolley, and the first in line lifted the lid from a large steel pot.

She ladelled what looked and smelt to Cara like rice pudding into each woman's dish, and they sat down. She also filled her trainer's dish and gave a bow before filling her own. Once she and her trainer were seated, another of the trainers on Cean-Sehohir's table rose. His indentures followed the same routine, as did the third trainer's. Finally, Cean-Sehohir stood at the head of Cara's table.

"You've seen the routine, I'm sure you can now manage it yourselves. First person serves the others." He indicated for first the women on one side, then the other, of the table to make their way to the counter. Cara chewed her lip as she deposited her plate and collected a dish, suddenly anxious to receive this rare treat. Being the last table to take from the pot, what Cara saw when the sweet milky pudding was poured into her bowl was not the prime pickings, but Cara was beyond caring. She returned to her seat and the world shrank to the size of her bowl until there was nothing left but marks where her spoon had been. Looking up finally, she gave a satisfied sigh and closed her eyes.

"I wonder how often this happens," mused seven-seven-four, giving Cara a nudge with her elbow. The next quarter of an hour passed pleasantly enough for Cara, Cean-Sehohir and the trainers allowing the women to socialise quietly at each table. Cara admired the way seven-seven-four chatted easily with the other women, always seeming to know the right things to say and the subjects to avoid. Although she stayed quiet, Cara enjoyed listening to the others talking and found that many had come to the training centre on a journey similar to her own.

After a period, the trainers rose from their table and went to the head of their respective indentures. Table by table, they filed out leaving only Cean-Sehohir and his charges. Cean-Sehohir opened the door to the cleaning cupboard and propped it open. He nominated the first woman to reach the cupboard to be responsible for handing out equipment, refilling buckets and cleaning the cupboard itself, and Cara was relieved to find this would not be her permanent duty. She joined two women who were stacking the dirty bowls and moving them to the serving hatch, and was about to get a cloth to start cleaning the tables when Cean-Sehohir caught her eye. He pointed at the three women and beckoned them to him.

"Follow me," he said, lifting up the counter at the end of the hatch and holding the door open for the three indentures to walk through into the serving area. "It's all yours!" He waved his hand expansively at the kitchen, stacked with dirty cooking utensils and the stacks of plates, dishes and cutlery then returned to the dining area, closing the hatch counter behind him.

Cara and one of the other women took up a station at one of the large sinks and began to fill them with hot water, whilst the third moved the items to be cleaned into some sort of order. As an item was cleaned and put to drain, the third woman would wipe it dry and open cupboards and drawers until she found a home for it.

Cara and her company worked flat out for the full hour, giving the counters and hob tops a final wipe down just as Cean-Sehohir raised the hatch and called them back through. There had been barely a moment to pause to wipe the sweat from her brow, and it was only as they were queuing back up at the door that Cara realised she didn't even know the names of the two women she had spent the last hour with, and they hadn't exchanged so much as a single word.

Standing in line, Cara watched as Cean-Sehohir narrowed his eyes at the women, inspecting each one. Immediately, she drew herself into the waiting posture they had been taught, looking straight ahead of her at the woman in front of her's back. Satisfied that each of his charges had learned the previous lesson, Cean-Sehohir turned to greet a blue-clad indenture who had quietly entered the dining room, and Cara recognised her as Puisin. Some words were quietly exchanged, but Cara could not understand those that she heard. Cean-Sehohir returned his attention to his indentures.

"Go with Puisin and she will show you your final duty for the night. Whilst you are in Puisin's charge, you will show her the same respect and obedience as you give to me, as she holds my full authority by delegation. Any misdemeanour will be dealt with, and I expect to hear nothing but good about all of you." Cean-Sehohir held open the door from the dining room. "Go now, follow Puisin." Puisin bowed to Cean-Sehohir then started out.

Puisin led the way down the main corridor through the building, around the sleeping chambers and past the classrooms, until she came to the entrance to the laundry room. The women followed her through the door she held open and stopped in amazement. Only Cara had caught a glimpse of this room previously, but had not had the time to take in the immense detail.

The room was at least eight metres long, and had large windows set high into the lengths of one wall. Unlike the windows in either the classrooms or the dining hall, these were made of long, horizontal overlapping panes of frosted reinforced glass and were currently opened to a wide angle to dissipate the heat and humidity from the room. Over the windows, vertical bars were set a handspan apart, preventing any attempt at escape through the opening. Outside was pitch black, the only light coming from the overhead tubes. Down both long walls ran banks of washing machines and in the centre was a long, wide bench. Several laundry baskets piled high with clothes were on the floor and a shelf ran above one bank of washing machines to hold a number of sewing kits and washing paraphernalia.

"No more than six dresses per machine," Puisin instructed, "and keep us blue-collars' clothes separate from you black-collars' dresses. Each of the trainers' bags should also have its own machine." She indicated towards four sacks that had been piled with the baskets. "Before you put anything in the wash, check it carefully for any damage. You will need to mend it before it gets washed. Always use program four." Puisin moved to the nearest machine and demonstrated how the machine should be started. "Sewing kits are on the shelf, as are washing liquid and fabric softener. Any questions?" The women stood mutely, their hands behind their backs. Puisin clapped her hands together and urged the women to start.

As she sorted through a pile of clothes, inspecting them for damage, Cara threw occasional glances towards Puisin. Despite having already been given a lesson by Puisin that day, she was still an unknown quantity. Puisin had a dark froth of hair, held back from her face by a blue alice-band the colour of her dress, and eyes that gleamed like cornflowers in the sun. Her rosy cheeks contrasted with her pale skin and she seemed to need to work hard to keep from permanently smiling. She was several inches taller than Cara, the blue cord about her waist emphasising her homely figure. Cara estimated her age at around thirty. She had proven herself to be a good teacher, and was apparently enthusiastic about her work but, as Cara reminded herself, nobody had yet crossed her. The blue-collar, as they seemed to refer to themselves, in the exercise shed that morning had been rather more enthusiastic with a crop but Cara noted that Puisin's hung from her waist cord, ready for instant use.

Cara was surprised to find that almost one in four of the dresses were in need of mending. She took six that seemed fine and put them in a machine to wash, then drew down a sewing kit from the shelf. By the time the washing machines had all been turned on, the noise level was such that conversation was simply not possible so Cara took a seat on the bench and stitched in silence. The last four women to put on a load of washing were taken aside by Puisin to an adjoining room, to prepare the drying room for when the washing machines had finished. After giving her instructions, Puisin stood in the doorway between the two rooms, keeping a careful eye on all her charges.

After half an hour, the machines finished their washing cycles one by one. Cara found the silence numbing after the constant roar, her ears ringing. Exhaustion weighed her down and she couldn't stifle her yawn as she went to retrieve her clean laundry and put on a fresh load of the items she had just mended. She took some small comfort as she watched the yawn spread from woman to woman, some more successful at hiding it than others. Cara's legs and arms were like lead, and she felt like her waking day had lasted at least a full twenty four hours.

Following the lead of Puisin, Cara took her basket of wet items into the drying room, a vast open space similar to the washing room she had just come from, but with windows along two walls, all of which were open to allow the humid air to escape. Vents in the ceiling forced hot air down in strong draughts, and from the ceiling hung long wooden racks that could be raised and lowered using ropes tied off at anchor points along the wall. The racks were all down at waist height, and Cara rested her basket on one whilst she took the clothes out one by one and hung them to dry on the narrow slats. The hot downdraught did nothing to help keep Cara awake, and she fumbled through the motions until all her clothes were hung up.

Along one wall stood an array of trolleys, heaped high with dry clothes. Puisin demonstrated to the women how to fold the clothes, and instructed them to stack them neatly on the trolleys, then strode over to supervise those who were handling the Trainers' items. Cara made her way to where seven-seven-four had started to fold items, and offered her a small smile before digging in to the pile and starting her own neatly folded stack.

Puisin found fault with only two trolleys, and once the women had refolded the offending items, Puisin led them all to the press room. This was a large square room, full of pressing tables and a number of irons corded into the ceiling. Around three walls was plenty of space, and Puisin guided the women into the room, gesturing for them to leave their trolleys around the edge. Against the fourth wall was a string of trolleys, each bearing stacks of dresses, pressed and neatly folded.

"Take these back," Puisin said, "the dresses will need to be put into the cupboard, and you can leave the trolleys in the drying room."

By the time they returned to the laundry room, the machines had finished their second load. Cara marvelled at how well-timed everything seemed to be, with barely a pause between tasks.

"Hurry now," Puisin said, "this is the last thing you need to do before you can toilet and bed. Get these clothes on the drying racks." The women hurried to it, anxious to finish the day's work. It wasn't long before they trooped wearily to their sleeping chamber, and even Cara was asleep almost before the metal mesh was drawn down at the entrance.

Cara followed Cean-Sehohir as he led the women back to the latrine area and indicated they had five minutes to relieve themselves. She hadn't noticed that Puisin had melted away, as seemed to be the habit of the women in the blue dresses. The women gathered together in a huddle, their whispered conversations unchallenged. Cara sought out seven-seven-four.

"How are you feeling now?" She asked the older woman, who still walked stiffly, favouring her hip.

"Oh, bin better treasure, that's sure, but the first day's always the worst. How're you bearin' up?"

"Piece of cake, i don't know what all the fuss is about," Cara tried to joke, a lump rising in her throat and her chin trembling. Seven-seven-four put out a hand to give Cara's cheek a reassuring rub.

"It does get easier treasure, that's what I hear, anyway!" She gave a halfhearted laugh and they both turned their attention back to Cean-Sehohir as he started to address the huddle.

"You have an hour and three quarters to make these areas shine. Cleaning items are in the storage cupboard at the far end of the shower-room." He pointed at Cara and seven-seven-four. "You will concentrate your efforts on the toilets." He pointed to another two and directed them to work on the basin area. "The rest of you will make sure the showers are spotless." After a brief pause, he asked, "Who took the laundry this morning?"

Cara's mouth worked soundlessly as she raised her hand.

"Hurry with these then, so you can pull your weight with the cleaning." Cean-Sehohir gestured to a pile of dirty dresses on the floor in the shower area. Cara bowed, then rushed to pick up the dresses. Outside the wetrooms, Cara stopped and tried to remember which way she had been led that morning to the laundry room. Left, she thought to herself, I'm sure it was. She followed the corridor as it bent to the left around the sleeping chambers, past the classroom doors, and was relieved to recognise the laundry room. She pushed the door open and deposited the laden basket alongside the one from that morning then hurried back to help seven-seven-four.

By the time Cara returned to the wetrooms, the cleaning products had been dragged out and the work was in full swing. Seven-seven-four handed Cara a pair of rubber gloves.

"I saved these for you, we're working with some nasty stuff here." Cara pulled them on gratefully and grabbed a scourer.

By the end of the cleaning period, barely a word had been spoken as the women worked hard to complete their task. Cean-Sehohir had them put the equipment away and lined them up in two rows to face him. He paused, his eyes taking in each woman.

"You, you and you. Wait at the door." Cean-Sehohir indicated with his crop at three indentures. They cast nervous glances between themselves but hurried to obey. Starting at one end of the front row, Cean-Sehohir ordered the first woman to take a step forward. She swallowed visibly but did as she was bid. "If you tell me why you are about to be punished, I will punish only you." The woman blanched, her voice momentarily lost.

"I-I- I don't know why, Cean-Sehohir, I'm sorry," her voice rose in panic.

"Hands." The woman raised her hands palms upwards, fighting to keep them from shaking. Cean-Sehohir brought his crop down hard on them both together and her fingers curled in with pain, a fiery weal rising almost immediately. "Back into line. You," he indicated for the next girl in line. "Step forward. Same deal." The terrified indenture chewed her trembling lip but took a pace forward.

"Please, Cean-Sehohir, I don't know, I... don't know..." she begged, her hands raised and shaking. The crop whistled down onto its target and the woman yelped. She retook her place in line, and the two remining indentures in the front row received the same punishment. Cara, at the end of the back row, was called out to stand before Cean-Sehohir. With legs like lead, she reached the point he indicated to and gritted her teeth, staring at the floor.

"Look at me," Cean-Sehohir instructed. Cara's eyes made it to about waist height but she was too terror-stricken to meet Cean-Sehohir's glare. He crooked his forefinger and lifted her chin none to gently. "Do you know why you are being punished?"

Cara shook her head before finding words. "No, Cean-Sehohir," she swallowed miserably and raised her hands, ready for the blow. It came with a sickening screaming pain that threatened to double Cara over, but she ground her teeth against it and fought against the rising nausea. She couldn't stop the tears forming and they spilled over as she retook her place in line.

Just before she was called out, seven-seven-four noticed movement from the woman the other side of her. Cean-Sehohir also noticed, and indicated for the woman to join the three at the door. Seven-seven-four relaxed a little, certain now that she knew the answer to the question she would soon be asked. Her chance came quickly, as Cean-Sehohir called her forward. She stopped before him and adopted the waiting pose they had been taught that afternoon, her feet slightly apart and her hands folded together behind her back. She stared straight ahead, looking part Cean-Sehohir without challenge. He nodded, then asked the same question of her as he had the others.

Seven-seven-four gave a bow. "Cean-Sehohir, I am to be punished for not standing as I should." With all the dignity she could muster, seven-seven-four broke position and raised her hands palms upwards before her, ready to receive the blow. The crop came down but seven-seven-four didn't make a sound. Cean-Sehohir nodded then looked up at the remaining indentures. They had all hurried to adopt the correct posture and stood mute. He pointed for them to join the four women already at the door, then led them into the dining room for their supper.

Cara was pleasantly surprised to find that supper comprised a large tasty dish full of rich meaty gravy and vegetables, and a large chunk of bread. Once her whole table had been seated with their food, Cean-Sehohir invited them to eat then made his way to a small table near the door where two men and a woman were sat. Cara recognised the two men as having conversed with Cean-Sehohir at lunch, so assumed all three were trainers.

Cara's was the last table to be seated, and she looked around at the packed hall. The long table that had stood empty at lunch was now full, and the only spaces in the room were at her own table. All the women were dressed identically, and bore black collars at their throats. As the women began to socialise quietly over their food, Cara found enough nerve to speak to seven-seven-four.

"I can't see any blue-robes," she said, "I think it's the first time today I've not seen them around."

"They're probably eating in their own quarters," said seven-seven-four. "It's my guess they belong to the centre, and are housed separately from the likes of us. Don't want them picking up no bad habits from us, eh!" She let out a barking laugh. "How's yours hands, pet?" Seven-seven-four had noticed that Cara was holding her fork delicately, her fingers unable to tighten around the handle. Opening her left hand, Cara ran a finger gently along the raised red weal and hissed softly.

"Hurts like hell, I just wish I'd stood the other side of you!" Cara braved a smile and was pleased to see seven-seven-four return it.

"So do I, treasure. I didn't cotton on until I saw her on my left shift, then I got it straight off. Still, lesson learned, eh, and neither of us will be making that mistake again."

"I never realised just how much of your life indeture took over," Cara mused. "I always thought it was just like being in a job you couldn't leave, but here it seems to be about everything you do and how you do it!" Seven-seven-four nodded her agreement, mopping up her gravy with the bread and chewing it thoughtfully.

"I've not had anything like it before meself," she said. "All the places I've been, it's as you said, a job you couldn't leave. None of this positions nonsense, you were given a job to do and you did it. You did anything you were told to do on top of that, but you were generally just left to get on with it. Here..." she gave a derisory snort, "it's like they're wanting to control your mind, not just your body. No wonder the indentures I spoke to who had spent time in training centres didn't want to go back!"

"So it's not like this... afterwards?" Hope rose in Cara.

"I'm not saying it won't be, treasure, I don't know where we'll end up, but I've not known it like this."

Relieved, Cara tucked into her food with renewed vigour. She couldn't imagine spending the next five years in such a regimented routine, but felt she would have the strength to cope, if it was only temporary. "How long do you think we'll be here?"

Seven-seven-four shrugged. "Maybe a month or so? It surely couldn't pay them to keep us any longer than that or they'd not have much of an income."

Cara nibbled at the last of her bread, suddenly feeling sick. "What's the going rate for indentures these days?"

"How much will we fetch at sale, you mean, treasure?" Cara nodded mutely. "All depends on how good their training is, I s'pose. Average prices range from three or four hundred to three or four thousand from what I've seen. Sometimes more, sometimes less at auction. The really skilled ones can fetch a fair bit more than that, but it all depends on what the buyer is willing to pay." Cara's throat went tight. Although it was an awful lot of money to her, it seemed a very small amount considering it would be buying her servitude and obedience - her life, in fact - for the duration of her indenture.

Gradually, as the indentures finished their food, a hush fell on the large hall. Cara felt the apprehension rising inside her again, suddenly aware of the extent to which she had relaxed so much throughout the brief lull while she ate. Movement from the end of the hall caught her eye and she watched as Cean-Sehohir's group of three broke away from their easy banter and each stood at the head of an occupied table. Cean-Sehohir surveyed his charges, then nodded to the other two men. They each nodded in return, then one after the other instructed their table to rise and file out of the dining room.

When there was only Cean-Sehohir's table remaining, Cara swallowed nervously. She was ready to rise at the first command, anxious that she not be singled out for punishment. Instead, Cean-Sehohir addressed them in English.

"As the newest indentures at my training centre, it is your duty to clean up after the others. You have one hour in which to make this room shine." Cean-Sehohir walked to a door at the back of the hall and waved his electronic fob against a small black box set into the wall. Pulling the door open, Cean-Sehohir propped it wide with a heavy container of cleaning fluid.

The benches scraped against the tiled floor as the indentures rose, making their way to the cupboard. Cara joined the queue and watched silently as one by one, the other indentures passed her carrying mops, buckets, cloths and polish as directed by Cean-Sehohir. Cara, at the end of the queue, was the last to reach the door. Just inside was a deep Belfast sink and Cean-Sehohir motioned for her to stand by it.

"You fill their buckets," he said, "and between times, you clean the cupboard." Cara's heart sank. Looking inside, she found it was in fact a long, narrow room with shelves from floor to ceiling. Cleaning products were packed tightly onto the shelves, and a stepladder leaned at the very end. The floor showed stains from the buckets and five-litre containers that had been removed, though a single mop remained. Cara stooped to pick up the bucket, and  put it in the sink, under the tap, to fill with hot water.

Cara found her efforts continually frustrated by having to stop each time an indenture came back to have their bucket refilled, or to ask for a different product. By the end of the hour she had managed to clean only the floor and the lowest shelf. Her mouth went instantly dry when Cean-Sehohir came round to inspect her work, but he merely nodded at her and indicated with his hand for the other indentures to return their equipment to the cupboard. Cara packed them away as neatly as she could and rejoined the others, leaving the door propped open. Before she made it back to the other women, quick footsteps behind her made her look round just as Cean-Sehohir extended his crop at Cara's chest level, blocking her way forward. His other hand pointed at the propped door and he growled something that Cara didn't understand.

"Close it!" He repeated, swiping at Cara's back as she scampered to obey.

Down the corridor he led them once more, turning right, past their sleeping chambers, then paused only long enough to swipe open a door leading to another room. This time, Cara thought it looked more like an old school hall than a classroom. The heavy wooden floor tiles were polished to a high gleam and the walls were painted white, brightening the room. The only windows were high up along the wall to Cara's left as she entered the room, and fluorescent strip lighting hung from the ceiling, imbuing the room with a yellow glow. Cara turned as she heard the magnetic lock click into place once the last indenture had passed through, and saw a large whiteboard covering much of that wall. Around the edges of the room were various pieces of large wooden and metal apparatus, the like of which Cara was unfamiliar with.

Cean-Sehohir snapped his fingers once, a surprisingly loud sound that reverberated in the otherwise empty room, then gave a command in his own language, speaking slowly. Cara recognised the sounds as being some of the numbers they had practiced that morning, but only recognised the word for the number 'three', as it was in her own name. When only two of the indentures made to move, Cean-Sehohir repeated his instruction, this time gesticulating with his hand to emphasise his command. The women moved to form three rows of four, but Cean-Sehohir was not satisfied. He moved to the back row and grabbed the woman at the end by the wrist. He pulled her round and pointed with his crop to a white mark on the floor, several paces behind her and gave her a push towards it. Pointing at the remainder of her row, he indicated they too should move in line.

Cara's row was next, and Cara anxiously sought her own white mark. As the line extended so that the indentures were over a metre apart, Cara felt suddenly vulnerable. When the first row also took to their white marks, there were about two metres between the rows, giving each indenture a good view of Cean-Sehohir - and Cean-Sehohir a good view of each woman. Cara looked at the ground but it seemed solid enough, so gave up on the idea that it might somehow open up and swallow her. A knock at the door distracted Cara from her reverie, and she watched as Cean-Sehohir amditted a blue-robed woman and led her to stand in front of the three rows of indentures.

The woman in blue stood placidly whilst Cean-Sehohir addressed the three rows, firstly in his own language and then in English.

"You are about to learn a number of positions and postures that will help you throughout your indenture. These will form part of your daily routine here, and you will perform them instantly, whenever you are instructed to do so. Once in position, you will hold your stance until told you are released from it. Today, you have the benefit of seeing what you aspire to achieve." Cean-Sehohir indicated towards the woman in the blue dress and gave a command in his own language. The blue robed indenture gave a graceful bow towards Cean-Sehohir, then drew herself up to her full height, her head erect and her eyes focussed on the wall behind the indentures. Her arms hung by her sides and her bare feet touched each other.

Cean-Sehohir repeated the word, and gestured for the indentures to imitate the stance. Cara pulled herself up straight and shuffled her feet together. She forced her hands to stay at her sides, though they itched with nervous energy to be in front of her. Cean-Sehohir inspected each indenture in turn, slapping at fidgeting fingers, nudging with his boot to push feet closer together, occasionally giving a verbal instruction to an indenture. Cara balled her hands and pressed them hard against her thighs to keep them still as Cean-Sehohir inspected the woman to her left. To her right, seven-seven-four looked ahead, grim-faced.

Moving on to Cara, Cean-Sehohir stood in front of her, marginally taller than she was. Cara willed her eyes to remain looking over his shoulder at the blank whiteboard behind him. Cean-Sehohir took hold of both of Cara's wrists and pulled her hands towards him. Pulling her eyes away from the empty board, Cara watched as he indicated for her to open her hands, palms upwards. Nausea threatened to take over as she did so and she closed her eyes, waiting for the expected slap to be delivered across her hands.

When nothing happened, and Cara realised she was still holding her breath, she opened her eyes. Cean-Sehohir simply nodded at her then pushed her wrists back down to her sides. As he moved behind Cara, she felt dizzy with relief and concentrated on keeping her hands flat against the coarse material of her dress. She gasped in surprise as Cean-Sehohir ran the brass handle of his crop firmly up the entire length of her spine. As he tilted her head upright with the back of his hand, she pulled herself tall.

All the while, as Cean-Sehohir continued to adjust the postures of the remaining indentures, Cara watched the woman in the blue robe maintaining her position, keeping perfectly still. Cara noted that her eyes did not so much as flicker across the indentures, or even in the direction of Cean-Sehohir. When he returned to stand by her, he touched the back of her shoulder with one hand and gave a second word of command. The woman tucked her hands behind her back, bending her elbows slightly, and moved her feet apart to provide a more balanced stance. Her eyes did not move from the back wall, even when Cean-Sehohir gestured for her to turn around.

Not losing the position, the woman in blue gracefully turned her back to the indentures to show how her hands were cupped together at the small of her back. Again, Cean-Sehohir repeated the word for the benefit of the indentures, and Cara joined the others in tucking her own hands behind her back and widening her stance. Cean-Sehohir walked among them, making occasional adjustments before returning to the front and issuing a further command to the woman in blue.

She turned to face the indentures then sank instantly to her knees, her weight resting on the backs of her heels, her hands folded and palm-down on her thighs. Cara recognised the position from the one that one-one-three had adopted in the holding stalls following the ferry journey, and when the instruction was repeated she dropped to her knees in an imitation of the pose. Cean-Sehohir spent some time adjusting the postures of a number of indentures before he reached Cara. He cupped his two hands under her jaw and lifted, stretching Cara's neck tall and raising the tilt of her head. Cara held her breath until she saw him move on from her out of the corner of her eye, to tap seven-seven-four on the small of her back with his crop to deter her fidgeting. Seven-seven-four gritted her teeth but held still.

On the next command, the woman in blue unfurled herself gracefully and stretched herself down on the floor, lying on her back. Cara craned her neck to take in the position, and strove to imitate it when instructed. She was grateful when Cean-Sehohir passed her by without adjustment and managed to catch seven-seven-four's eye when Cean-Sehohir moved past her, also. Seven-seven-four twisted her head a fraction and gave Cara a wink, which she returned by way of a nervous smile.

Leaving the woman in blue where she was, Cean-Sehohir repeated an earlier command and Cara fought her panic as she realised she had no idea which one it was. She wasn't alone, though she followed the example of those others who had not understood and took her cue from those who had, rising to her feet and adopting the widened stance. Cean-Sehohir nodded his approval, then instructed the woman in blue to take her final position. She rolled smoothly onto her front, her face to the left, and tucked her arms against her sides. He gave the indentures a moment to observe before the instruction was repeated, and Cara once more took to the floor. Only when she was lying down did she realise she had not taken note of how her hands should be, so she pressed her fingers flat against her thighs, tugging the skirt of her dress down to make sure she was well covered.

Cean-Sehohir approached Cara from her blind side and swiped at her fingers with his crop. She instantly stiffened, unsure of what he required, until he bent down and rolled her hand outward so that the back of her hand was flat on the floor. Her fingers instinctively curled in, and she yelped as he rose and pressed the sole of his boot into the palm of her hand to flatten it.

Satisfied that all his charges had mastered this position also, he again called for them to stand with their hands behind their backs. The woman in blue also stood, her eyes once again focussed on the back wall.

"The position you are in now," he instructed in English, "is the one you will use at all times when not otherwise instructed, or at rest. I do not expect to have to remind any of you of this, now that you are aware. Observe the following sequence, then repeat upon instruction." Cean-Sehohir turned slightly and gave the initial instruction to the woman in blue. She moved back into the first position the indentures had been shown, then the waiting position, before sinking to her knees, her back and turning onto her front. Finally she returned to the waiting position.

"Now you." Cean-Sehohir addressed the twelve, and called out the individual position names. As they slowly cycled through the sequence, changing at Cean-Sehohir's command, the woman in blue moved among them, adjusting postures. Cara was about to drop into the kneeling position when she felt a hand at her waist, and another just underneath her chin, keeping her head up. The hands slowed Cara's descent and she smiled as she found herself feeling more graceful, despite herself. As the woman in blue moved on, Cara tried to keep the feeling alive.

Cara didn't notice the time passing as she concentrated on moving between the positions. She had begun to associate the different postures with their names, and now recognised when Cean-Sehohir called for them to adopt the waiting position upon completion of the final sequence. Cean-Sehohir led the women from the room, past the classroom where they had taken their language lesson that morning, to the third classroom along. He opened the door with his fob and waited for them to enter and take their seats.

Instead of individual desks, this room had a long, central island with stools arranged around three sides. Cara joined the others in seeking seats nearest to Cean-Sehohir, eager not to repeat this morning's mistake. As she waited to find out what would happen next, Cara cast her eyes around the room. On one side, where Cean-Sehohir and the blue-robed woman stood, was a whiteboard and on each of the other three sides ran long banks of deep cupboards. Set high above these, the length of one wall, were windows similar to those in the last room. Too high to look out of, but they provided adequate lighting in the room, which was supplemented with overhead fluorescent tubes.

"Welcome to your first skill-based lesson." Cean-Sehohir introduced the lesson in English. "As Stage One trainees, you will practice your sewing skills. Your lessons in this subject will be delivered by Puisin here." Cean-Sehohir nodded towards the woman in the blue dress, then took a seat at the side of the room.  Cara became instantly more alert. She didn't recognise 'Puisin' as being one of the numbers they had learned that morning, so perhaps it was possible she herself might not be six-three-one for the next five years. She gave Puisin her full attention as she explained in her quiet, patient voice that they would be spending that week's skill-based lessons making a their own Training Centre dress.

Puisin opened one of the cupboards and pulled out a basket full of dress patterns. She put these in the centre of the large table and instructed each indenture to select a pattern nearest to their own size. Moving to the side under the windows, Puisin cut off several wide lengths of cloth from a roll of coarse, pale material there.

By the end of the lesson, Cara had pinned the pattern to the material and started to cut out a number of the pieces. From what she could gather, the dress would not look all that different from the one she wore now. At least, she thought, it won't have numbers plastered all over my back. Puisin handed out large sheets of paper and instructed the women to write their names on them, then fold them in half around their pattern and material. Cara was halfway through the first 'a' of her name when seven-seven-four nudged her hard and gave a cough. It took Cara a moment to realise what she should have written, and her vision momentarily hazed as her eyes filled with unshed tears. Not here, she thought, not now, and bit back the desire to sob as though her heart would break.

Cara walked in with the others and stopped in amazement. Before them were four rows of desks and chairs, four in each row, reminiscent of when Cara was at school. Cean-Sehohir gestured for the women to make use of the desks. They moved randomly to seat themselves, spreading out between all four rows. Cara made sure that she sat next to seven-seven-four, and noticed that some of the other women had paired up also.

Cean-Sehohir waited for the women to choose their seats then strode to the back of the room. Three of the four seats of the back row were occupied and he instructed these three women to stand. Hesitantly they did so, Cara sneaking a look behind her to watch, as did a number of others. Cean-Sehohir indicated with his crop for each of the three women to move to the left of their desk.

Seizing the first at the back of her neck, he twisted her around slightly and pushed her, face down, to the desk. Holding her down with his left hand, he delivered three stinging blows to her raised buttocks. Hauling her upright he pushed her towards the front of the room to take a seat at one of the two empty spaces in the front row.

Turning his attention to the second woman seated at the back he repeated the process, giving her an extra blow when she tried to resist. The third woman, looking on in terror, started to move towards the only remaining empty seat forward of the back row before Cean-Sehohir had even reached her. Grabbing her by the wrist he hauled her back and threw her, sprawling, over the desk to receive five blows of his crop before allowing her to take the remaining empty seat.

The other women maintained a shocked silence and Cean-Sehohir enjoyed their undivided attention as they began their first formal lesson as his indentures. He introduced himself in his own language, taking a small bow of greeting. He repeated the phrase he used slowly, then pointed to the indenture in the front row, nearest the door. He gestured with one hand for her to stand, then repeated what Cara took to mean "I am..." again.

The woman looked concerned and stumbled her way over the words, stopping when she reached her name. Not knowing the equivalent in the new language, she introduced herself in English - seven-eight-three. Cean-Sehohir nodded and turned to a whiteboard mounted on the wall facing the women. He picked up a pen and drew the digits from zero to nine, leaving a space next to each one.

By the seven he wrote the word in his language then spoke it aloud. Motioning for seven-eight-three to repeat it, she did so. Cean-Sehohir then directed all twelve women to say the word aloud. Cara joined her voice to the other eleven, concentrating on the pronunciation and trying to equate it with the spelling on the board.

Cean-Sehohir went through each of seven-eight-three's digits, getting first her then all twelve to repeat them. Once seven-eight-three had successfully introduced herself in his language as shacht-ocht-tri, Cean-Sehohir moved to the next woman in the front row. Speaking his language perfectly, she rose and introduced herself as cuig-se-ocht. Cean-Sehohir wrote the equivalent words for five and six next to their respective numbers and again all twelve practiced their pronunciation in unison. Cara recognised cuig-se-ocht as being the woman who had been gagged during breakfast that morning for giving the English translation of Cean-Sehohir's instruction.

Cara, seated nearest the door of the next row, waited nervously for her turn. It wasn't long before Cean-Sehohir's attention focussed on her. She stood, thinking carefully about her pronunciation, but hesitated after the first two digits. 'One' had not yet been taught to the class, so she paused then spoke it in English. Cean-Sehohir announced the word in his language, aon, and wrote it on the board. Cara repeated the number, waited for the whole class to repeat it, then re-introduced herself as se-tri-aon.

Her new name, Cara thought to herself as she sat back down on the wooden chair. Not fully understanding the language, Cara found se-tri-aon preferable to six-three-one; at least it seemed more of a name than a number.

Seven-seven-four was next; her numbers having already been covered by others, she introduced herself as shacht-shacht-cehed. By the time all twelve women had introduced themselves they had covered all ten digits. Cara tried hard to concentrate as they ran through the numbers from zero to nine together, but she found her mind wandering off in much the same way as it had when she had been at school.

Much of the remainder of the lesson was spent reciting numbers as a group and individually. Cara was relieved when her turn came and she counted through without error. To end the lesson, Cean-Sehohir pointed randomly at individuals for them to introduce themselves once more. On successfully completing this, each was allowed to line up at the door, the sign that the lesson was over and they were dismissed.

Checking his watch briefly, Cean-Sehohir opened the door and led the women back into the corridor, taking two swift left turns before heading through a pair of double doors into the dining room. He directed the line of women, who had followed him obediently, to the end of a queue of women already waiting to receive their lunch. As they passed a stack of trays, each picked one up and shuffled nearer to the canteen hatch where Cara could see other indentures, dressed the same as her, ladling out some kind of soup into a bowl and handing it to each woman.

The line moved slowly forward, shuffling Cara towards the food hatch. She in turn pulled a tray from the pile, edging it across the ledge until she was ready to receive her lunch. A dish was placed unceremoniously on her tray, and the next woman ladled into it thin, watery looking gravy with pale brown stringy lumps floating on the surface. Looking at the food in dismay, Cara turned and took a seat at the table and waited for seven-seven-four to join her.

As the queue shortened and more were seated, a quiet murmur began to rise in the room. Looking around, Cara could see Cean-Sehohir leaning against a wall talking to two other men. Each was dressed in a similar way: lightweight trousers, shirt open at the neck and sturdy shoes. All three carried crops which were now tucked through a purpose-made loop hanging from their belts. They seemed unconcerned that their charges were socialising at a low volume, though every so often they would cast their eyes over the tables.

"Can yer believe it's only lunch time?" Seven-seven-four sat down next to Cara, setting her tray in front of her. Cara shook her head in reply.

"Feels like we've had at least a whole day already," she agreed. "Will it be like this every day, do you think?" Seven-seven-four shrugged, non-committal. She scooped a spoonful of the food into her mouth and pulled a face.

"The work I can cope with," she said, "but I 'ope the food improves."

Cara, slowly working her way through her own bowl, nodded vigorously. The gravy was bland and tasteless, Cara wanted desperately to add salt but she could see none available. She couldn't make her mind up what the lumps were made of, or even whether they were meat, or something entirely different. Too hungry to risk leaving any, Cara ploughed on slowly.

"What're yer like at languages then, treasure?" seven-seven-four asked.

"Not the best," Cara admitted, "I was never that good at school."

"Same 'ere, but I get the feeling we're both goin' to learn this one, one way or another." Cara nodded and sighed, trying to keep her mind off the food.

"I hope we don't have to go through that business in the showers every day," she said, "I think we're all perfectly capable of washing ourselves."

"I think the washin' is only part of what they're tryin' to achieve, lass," seven-seven-four replied. "You ever been washed by someone else before?" Cara shook her head, her cheeks colouring at the memory of the other woman's hands on her skin. "Yer not the only one new to it all 'ere, so it's my guess that it's one of the ways they 'ave of showing yer they can do what they want with yer."

"But do they have to shave us, too?" Cara's voice rose into an indignant whisper. Seven-seven-four chuckled and patted the back of Cara's hand.

"I think that's what's known as 'industry standard', treasure - easier to keep clean and healthy, and another way of showing us who's boss. It's my guess that those washing us this morning were in our position no so long ago. Just grin and bear it as best yer can, and we'll move on soon enough, wi' a bit o' luck."

Cara was less than reassured by seven-seven-four's assumption and hoped she was correct that the ordeal would soon be over.

The blue-robed indenture led Cara past the entrance to the sleeping stalls and followed the passageway around a sharp left hand bend. From the rooms to her right Cara could hear voices. She could not make out the words but the vocal rhythms reminded Cara of when she had been taught her times tables at school. Taking another sharp turn left the woman led Cara into the laundry room. She indicated for Cara to put the basket down next to several others then ushered her back out. Before she left Cara glanced around, noting a row of three washing machines and several empty troughs.

Waving for Cara to hurry up, the woman led her down the corridor, back the way they had come to the entrance to the sleeping stalls. Cara saw seven-seven-four working alone in their sleeping quarters and moved to join her. When she glanced back she saw the woman in blue had vanished silently. She regretted not having even asked the woman for her name.

Moving to where seven-seven-four was picking up straw with a plastic rake, similar to garden hand-tools, and moving it into a central pile, Cara whispered to her, asking where the others were.

"There's two in each of the four sleeping chambers, treasure," she answered quietly, though not whispering. "Well, now there's two!" She laughed briefly, nodding to indicate she meant Cara. "Cean-Sehohir's taken four to fetch fresh straw, then it'll be three per chamber. We 'ave two hours to thoroughly scrub this place and freshen the bedding. The decent straw I'm moving to the middle. I've nearly finished this stall, why don' yer start on the next one?"

"Yes, sure," Cara nodded and took the plastic rake seven-seven-four offered her.

They worked methodically, moving the straw that was clean and intact into a pile. They judged about half to be re-useable and the rest was swept into a pile in the stall nearest the door. Just as they were finishing, they heard a loud clanking and rattling. Seven-seven-four peered into the corridor then called to Cara.

"Give us a hand, treasure," Two of the women were wheeling a large trolley bearing four bales of straw whilst the other two each carried two buckets of steaming water. Cara and seven-seven-four lifted a bale from the trolley just as the others emerged from the chambers they had been assigned.

One of the water bearers, who introduced herself as one-nine-eight, placed a bucket just inside the open door of the opposite chamber and joined Cara and seven-seven-four with her other bucket. In the hot water were three scrubbing brushes and some cloths. Each took a brush and began to scrub at the concrete floor.

Cara's knees soon hurt as she knelt on the cold floor. She grew hot in the airless stall and glanced up at the white windowless walls. Seven-seven-four knelt up in the opposite stall at the same time, stretching her back, and their eyes made contact. They smiled at each other and continued wordlessly with their tasks.

On reaching the fifth and last stall in their chamber, one-nine-eight picked up an armful of the straw and carried it out to the trolley in the corridor, still parked outside the entrance to the four chambers. Cara and seven-seven-four followed suit, pressing it down to make room for the straw from the other chambers.

As one-nine-eight and seven-seven-four finished scrubbing the final stall Cara wiped down the gloss-painted walls and varnished wooden stall dividers with a cloth, paying close attention to the area behind the door. The first stalls now having dried, seven-seven-four re-laid the straw in those stalls, careful to sweep the straw at the open end into a neat edge. Cara sighed with relief as they neared the end of their task, every inch of her spine aching.

From his position in the corridor Cean-Sehohir snapped his fingers and pointed at one woman in each chamber. Cara again caught his eye and stood with the other three in the corridor. Though Cean-Sehohir's words meant little to Cara his gestures clearly told her to guide the trolley as he led them to dispose of the straw and water buckets.

The four women followed obediently, two carrying the buckets, now much lighter than before, and two steering the trolley laden with dirty and damaged straw. There was only one turn to negotiate, a sharp right hand bend just beyond the toilets and showers. Cean-Sehohir released the back door and they were outside in the metalled yard. Cara stared up at the blue sky in amazement, the mist and drizzle having completely cleared to reveal a stunning sunny day.

They crossed the yard and went behind the building in which they had been exercised that morning. Straw was heaped up a short distance from the wall and Cara helped her companion add the contents of the trolley to the pile. Cean-Sehohir opened a door into the back of the building, revealing a supply of fresh straw bales and room to store the trolley and buckets.

Replacing the items, they returned across the yard to the sleeping chambers where the others had put the finishing touches to the stalls. Cean-Sehohir called one-nine-eight and seven-seven-four into the corridor to give him room to inspect the chamber. He checked each of the five stalls then swung the door closed, checking the wall and floor behind it for traces of dirt that had been missed.

Finding nothing to chastise Cara, seven-seven-four and one-nine-eight over, he moved to the next chamber. When he called the women out for their inspection Cara was alarmed to see the woman who had been punished in the shower room was still gagged. She appeared to have given up trying to wipe her saliva from her chin and the front of her dress showed a large damp patch from her throat to her stomach.

Pleased with the results of their labours Cean-Sehohir moved on to inspect the remaining two chambers. He found fault only with the last one, where the women had not scrubbed thoroughly behind the door. Demanding each of the three responsible to hold both hands in front of them, palms upwards, Cean-Sehohir delivered a stinging blow with his crop across each palm. The women gasped and squealed at the sudden bursts of pain, tears welling, but none resisted or tried to pull away.

Their morning chore completed, Cean-Sehohir called for the women to line up single file. Beckoning with his finger he summoned the gagged woman to the front.

"Well?" He questioned her in English. The silence extended, Cean-Sehohir prepared to wait as long as it took for a response. Eventually the woman sank to her knees on the hard tiled floor, her shoulders hunched and her eyes looking up miserably at Cean-Sehohir.

Moving to one side of the woman, he placed his right hand at the back of her neck. He pushed her forwards and down until she was completely bent forward over her knees, her face almost touching the ground. Cara looked on, fearful for the distraught indenture yet curious. Cean-Sehohir, finding no resistance from the woman, stood and placed his foot at the top of her spine, pressing down lightly to hold her in position, his arms folded, crop tucked under one elbow. When a full minute had passed and the woman had not moved other than to occasionally draw breath in a silent sob, Cean-Sehohir removed his foot and placed his hand on the woman's shoulder. Guiding her back into a kneeling position he retrieved the key for the padlock from his pocket and released it with a click.

He loosened the cinched straps about her head and under her chin, then unfastened the buckle holding the gag in the indenture's mouth. Drawing the harness from her head he gently eased the rubber mouthpiece from between the woman's teeth and waited as she rubbed the feeling back into her jaw. Watching Cean-Sehohir help the woman to her feet, Cara was surprised to see the woman bow deeply.

"Thank you, Cean-Sehohir." The woman stumbled over the words as her jaw was slow to do her bidding. Satisfied, Cean-Sehohir dipped his head in acknowledgement.

"Re-take your place in line." The woman moved awkwardly to where she had been standing, conscious that she had been the centre of everyone's attention throughout the whole painful experience.

The indenture in blue who had shown Cara to the laundry room glided round the corner at that moment and Cean-Sehohir handed the gag harness to her, issuing an instruction Cara did not understand. The woman bowed and moved away silently, leaving Cara curious about the status of the woman. Cean-Sehohir barked a word of command and led the line of women a few short paces down the corridor to the nearest doorway. He pushed the door open and strode in, stopping to hold the door open until all twelve had entered the room.

The washing now finished, Cean-Sehohir wound the wheel on the wall again until the water ceased. The attendants fetched towels from the stack near the basket of ropes and returned to dry off their charges. Cara closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of the fabric against her skin. Her attendant squeezed Cara's hair with her hands then rubbed it vigorously with the towel until it hung just damp about Cara's shoulders.

Cean-Sehohir's shoes squeaked on the wet tiles as he walked up to the women and examined each one. Unable to wriggle away Cara was forced to endure his rough fingers on her flesh, checking the quality of the attendants' work. Her skin was tender and she flinched, gasping as he ran his fingertips over the raised bumps.

Something cold and soothing touched Cara and she saw that Cean-Sehohir was rubbing a lotion into her skin to ease the rash. He checked each woman in turn, releasing their bound hands as he went, and calling the attendants in pairs to release the ankle bonds of those he had already examined.

Cara, the second to be freed, staggered away from the bar, her legs like rubber after being bound apart for what felt like the best part of half an hour. Her hair dripping down her back, she squeezed it out as best she could and rubbed her arms, the air in the room cooling rapidly now the water was turned off.

As he was nearing the end of the line, Cean-Sehohir sensed the next woman was about to try to give him trouble. He waited for the two attendants to release the one he had just examined and moved to the next. He had noticed her wild eyes the night before; she was one of the two he had paid more than usual for at the auction block. It was only ever a matter of time, he thought, before one of them seeks to find the boundary between what he accepted and what he did not. He examined her in the same way as he had the others, checking her elbows and knees for ingrained dirt and running his fingers over her newly-shaved flesh.

Cara moved closer to seven-seven-four. The loosed women could feel the tension and they huddled together for comfort and support. The clothed indentures remained in their two lines of six but all eyes were on Cean-Sehohir and the two remaining women under the showerheads.

Cean-Sehohir noted the wild-eyed woman bore more blood where she had been shaved than the others. This may have been due in part to the lack of experience of her attendant, but Cean-Sehohir had seen how she had wriggled and squirmed to pull away from the razor.

Just as he reached up to release the cord from the woman's collar and call up two attendants to unbind her ankles, the woman drew her head back and spat fiercely at him. Several gasps came from Cara's group. The attendants, though silent, looked shocked, their eyes wide. A couple had seen something similar before and exchanged knowing looks but the others were horrified that anyone would dare to do such a thing.

Cean-Sehohir withdrew his hand. He cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow at her, then stepped away leaving the furious woman bound and squirming. Moving to the last woman under the showerheads he gave her the same inspection and released her hands. At a click of his fingers two attendants sprang forward to release her feet. Cean-Sehohir held the woman's hand to steady her as she lifted her leg over the bar, then she fled to join the others. The attendants returned to their line and once more all eyes were on the two remaining figures.

The woman's saliva had landed on his cheek and run into his beard. He dabbed at it with his fingertips then smeared it onto the woman's cheek. She tried to pull away from his touch but the rope between her wrists and collar did not let her get far.

Without warning she started to struggle, fighting with all her strength against the ropes. Cean-Sehohir waited until she was still again then called out an instruction to an attendant. Cara watched as one woman left the room and returned moments later having fetched the item. She brought it to Cean-Sehohir, bowing and returning to her line silently.

At the points where the woman had bled he rubbed the white lotion into her skin. He held her chin tightly, controlling her head with his strong hand. Cean-Sehohir then picked up the item he had been brought, a bundle of leather straps from which hung a small brass padlock. He moved astride the bar behind the woman, pushing her head back to face the front when she tried to look around. He shook the straps out, though Cara could make no sense of them until he brought them up to the woman's face.

A strap went under the woman's chin to rings at either end of a rubber bit in the shape of a 'w'. Another strap went up to the top of her head just in front of her ears, a horizontal band stretching across her forehead to keep it from sliding back. Also attached to the rings at either end of the 'w' were two straps that buckled together at the back of the woman's head, running underneath her ears.

Threading the loose end through the buckle, Cean-Sehohir pressed the central point against the woman's gritted teeth. When she refused to open her mouth Cean-Sehohir kicked the inside of her ankle with the toe of his shoe. The woman gave an involuntary gasp and the rubber bit slid in. Cean-Sehohir tightened the buckle to take out all the slack then adjusted the other straps about the woman's face. By the time he had finished she was unable to move her jaw or seal her mouth with her lips.

Cean-Sehohir brought his leg over the bar and stood back to watch for a moment. The woman tossed her head angrily but was unable to loosen the gag at all. Satisfied that the tension had been set correctly, he slipped the padlock through the locking ring at the back and snapped it shut.

The woman had stopped throwing her head about as she realised the bit was making her salivate and she had no way of preventing it from leaking down her chin. Knowing she could not understand his language, Cean-Sehohir spoke in English so she would appreciate her lesson.

"When you can learn to keep your spit inside your mouth, my pretty, then I will permit you to do so. Until then, this will be a little reminder. Your body is mine to touch when and where I choose and you will either accept that through choice, or force. Do you understand?" The woman stood still, her eyes angry as she wiped her chin on her raised shoulder. Breathing deeply she gave a small shake of her head.

Cean-Sehohir grinned and patted the woman on her bottom then gripped both her wrists tightly with one hand. With the other he released the rope fastened at her collar and tugged on the slipknot about the woman's wrists, pulling the rope free. Still holding her wrists tightly he called on two attendants to untie the ankle ropes. The woman remained motionless; her head tilted slightly back, she fixed her eyes on Cean-Sehohir. She looked more uncomfortable than angry now and Cara wondered how long it would be before Cean-Sehohir considered she had learned her lesson.

Cean-Sehohir did not release his grasp of the woman's wrists until he had returned her to the huddle of naked indentures. Pointing for them to get back into their dresses he indicated that the attendants may begin their own showers and turned the water back on. As Cara's dress slid over her head and she pulled her hair through, she marvelled at how unselfconscious the attendants were as they tore their wet dresses off and dove under the steaming torrent of water. They chatted quietly as they cleaned themselves and seemed perfectly at ease.

Catching Cara's attention, Cean-Sehohir beckoned her to approach him. Fear sent a wave of nausea through her, threatening to block out all sound and light from her senses. Taking a deep breath she stood before him and gave a small bow as she had seen others do. He seemed pleased and nodded. He asked her a question in his language and Cara's face became even more panicked.

"Cean-Sehohir?" she said carefully. He pointed at a wicker basket half filled with dirty laundry and spoke its name in his language. Cara nodded. Next he pointed to where the wet dresses were piled and indicated for her to put them into the basket. He clapped his hands twice and Cara did as she had been instructed, returning to Cean-Sehohir with the full basket.

Cean-Sehohir moved to the front of the huddle and snapped his fingers, indicating with an outstretched arm that he wanted the women in one line. The women shuffled themselves, Cara at the end with the basket. The gagged woman stood just in front of her, furiously wiping her chin with her hands. Cara shuddered and followed as the line moved off.

Cean-Sehohir led the women back past the basins and the toilets into the wide corridor. He called a name and a woman dressed in blue appeared almost immediately. Cara did not recognise her as being the woman who had overseen their exercise and breakfast, so assumed she must be the second of the two she had seen when they had arrived the previous night. Cean-Sehohir spoke briefly to the woman then snapped his fingers at Cara. She stepped forward nervously. The woman in blue spoke to her, motioning with her hand for Cara to follow.

This room was also tiled in white, the rough floor tiles damp under Cara's bare feet. At the far end a row of showerheads hung from the ceiling and the air smelled of steam. Three metal beams were arranged horizontally underneath the shower heads, the highest about knee-high from the ground, with a much lower one to either side. A single beam was attached to the ceiling, slightly to one side of the showerheads. The ceiling itself was low enough that if he had wanted to, Cean-Sehohir could have touched it if he stretched.

Before they got to the showers, Cean-Sehohir pointed to a row of washbasins, each bearing a number of toothbrushes and a small tube of toothpaste. A bucket of steaming water was on the floor beside the basins. Anxious to freshen up her mouth at last, Cara eagerly went with the others to the basins, scrubbing at her teeth with vigour. The toothpaste was gritty and the flavour, whilst not altogether unpleasant, didn't leave Cara's mouth feeling as fresh as she had hoped. Her teeth when she had finished, though, felt smooth and clean and she ran her tongue over them, enjoying the change from the last few days.

Cean-Sehohir motioned for those that had finished to drop their toothbrushes into the bucket of boiling water and to stand to one side to leave room for the others to do their teeth. Once they had all finished he ushered them forward towards the showers and bid them remove their dresses.

Seven-seven-four and about five of the others obeyed immediately on realising what he wanted them to do, but Cara and the others were more hesitant. Cara had hoped she would get a little more privacy to shower, and her thoughts flew back to the Indenture Centre when she had stripped and scrubbed herself under the watchful eye of Mrs Underwood and Frankland.

As Cean-Sehohir's crop lashed out at the hesitant women, Cara gave a barely audible sigh, her eyes downcast, and she raised her dress above her head, sliding out of it. She noticed that the others stood naked by their neatly folded dresses and took the time to do the same, folding her dress into a neat square bundle which she laid at her feet. She covered herself as best she could with her hands and waited for the instruction to shower.

It did not come. Instead, Cean-Sehohir took the indenture nearest to him, ocht-do-aon, firmly by the wrist and led only her to the shower area. The others huddled together, watching nervously, certain it would not be long before each of them experienced the same.

Cean-Sehohir walked ocht-do-aon to one end of the tallest floor beam. Positioning her at its end, he tapped between her knees until she opened her legs slightly. Guiding her forward, she tried to walk to one side of the higher beam but Cean-Sehohir pulled her back and jiggled his crop between her parted knees. With a resigned look of dismay, ocht-do-aon straddled the bar and walked forward until Cean-Sehohir stopped her, just short of the other end of the beam.

Pulling a length of nylon cord from his pocket, Cean-Sehohir bent and grasped ocht-do-aon's left ankle firmly with one hand, pulling it out to rest against the lower bar. With the other hand he wound the cord around her ankle and the bar in a figure of eight pattern, tying it securely. Ocht-do-aon looked back at the group of waiting women, her eyes pleading for help. The watching women huddled closer together, unable to take their eyes from the scene.

Cean-Sehohir repeated the process with ocht-do-aon's right ankle, tying that to the low bar on the other side. She was bending down slightly, holding on to the bar between her legs for balance as she tested the bonds. Satisfied that both feet were secured, he walked to a basket from which he drew more nylon ropes. Two shorter ropes he tucked back into his pocket to replace those he had used. The longer one he kept in his left hand as he returned to ocht-do-aon.

She had regained her balance and stood erect once more, trying to cover herself with her hands. He fastened one end of the rope into a slipknot and, seizing the trembling woman's wrists and holding them together with just his right hand, Cean-Sehohir hooked the loop of rope about them, pulling the slipknot tight about her crossed wrists.

Reaching up, he passed the remainder of the rope over the ceiling bar above ocht-do-aon's head and caught the free end. He pulled her hands up so that her elbows were at her eye-level, but still slightly bent, then threaded the loose end through the D-ring of ocht-do-aon's collar, tying it off.

With her hands raised as high as they were, ocht-do-aon was unable to reach the knot and when she gave a tug to test its strength she felt her collar pull tight under her chin. With her legs bound wide to the lower bars, she was unable to give herself any extra height. She gave a sob as she realised she would remain bound until Cean-Sehohir decided to release her.

Returning to the huddled women, Cean-Sehohir chose the next to receive his attentions. He picked the younger woman with the red glint in her long hair: Cara. With a yelp, Cara hurried to keep pace as Cean-Sehohir marched her to the end of the bar. His crop sought the insides of her legs and Cara widened her stance. Guided forward with his crop in the small of her back, Cara straddled the narrow metal beam as she had seen the previous woman do. Cean-Sehohir stopped her just short of reaching distance from the first woman.

Cara's heart pounded hard, a lump rising in her throat as Cean-Sehohir bent to secure her left ankle. She wanted to fight, to resist, but his crop still hung from his wrist and the best she could hope for was a short delay before she met whatever Cean-Sehohir intended to be her fate.

Wrapping one arm about her chest, the other trying to cover the dark patch at the top of her legs, Cara kept her balance as her other ankle was secured. Again Cean-Sehohir replenished his pocket with two shorter lengths of rope, and removed a longer one from the basket. When he returned to Cara she froze in fear and he had to prise her arms away from her chest and belly. This earned her a harsh slap of the crop to the top of her left thigh, distracting her just long enough for Cean-Sehohir to pin her wrists together and tighten the slipknot around them.

He secured the rope from Cara's wrists over the beam and down to her collar as before, her half-hearted resistance no match for his determination that she obey. Feeling excruciatingly vulnerable, Cara looked down at her stinging thigh to see the bright red weal the crop had caused. Her eyes filled with tears but she refused to let him see her cry and she bit them back, trying to swallow the huge lump in her throat.

One by one, each woman was bound underneath the showerheads in the same way. Cean-Sehohir was adept at his task and soon stood back to admire his work. The beam was long enough to fit another four, and normally he bought his stock in groups of sixteen but this time his budget had been spent after only twelve. His eyes lingered over the two in particular that had broken his personal spending limit, and he remained pleased that he had deemed them worthy at the time for the spirit and promise he had seen on the auction block and in the stalls beforehand.

Now clapping his hands he summoned twelve women dressed in pale cotton shift dresses, bearing the black collars of the training centre. He turned a wheel on the wall and icy water cascaded over the bound women, heating in seconds to fill the room with steam.

The women jerked against their ropes as the shock of the cold water hit their bodies, but relaxed as it warmed. Cara threw her head back, tossing her hair in the spray. It felt good to have the cleansing water run over her body, she no longer felt as naked as she had before.

Cean-Sehohir folded his arms as he leaned against the wall. This would be a test not just for the newcomers but for the clothed indentures, also, for this would be the first time at performing what they were about to do. He had chosen these twelve carefully and watched them now with intent eyes.

The clothed women each approached one of the bound indentures. Cara renewed her struggle as she eyed the items carried by the woman approaching her. The woman attending Cara put a hand on her arm and shook her head at her. Cara stopped pulling at her rope as their eyes met but couldn't help flinching at the touch. Heedless that she herself was getting wet, the woman smiled at Cara as she set her things down by her feet. Picking up a bottle, she squeezed a small amount of creamy liquid into her hand then stroked it into Cara's hair. Moving behind Cara, she began to rub with both hands, massaging the lather right down to the skin. She worked her fingers through the length of Cara's hair, rubbing and squeezing until she was satisfied it was all clean.

Moving Cara's head slightly so her hair was under the direct force of the showerhead, the woman gently rubbed with her fingertips at Cara's scalp and hair until it squeaked. Watching in front of her, Cara saw the woman in front of her receiving the same treatment, though her attendant seemed less confident in her actions and ocht-do-aon occasionally let out a small squeak as her hair was tugged by the woman's indelicate fingers.

Satisfied that Cara's hair was now clean, the clothed woman took a bar of soap in one hand and a folded flannel in the other. Rubbing the flannel alternately against the soap and then against Cara's body, the woman gently cleaned away the days of grime. Cara smiled gratefully to her and received a warm smile in return. Cara felt a moment of discomfort when the woman drew the flannel across her breasts, cleaning each as thoroughly as she had the rest of Cara. When she pressed the flannel between Cara's legs, though, Cara yelped and tried to back away. The bonds, now saturated, had tightened and she was unable to move her feet at all. Continuing to clean the area thoroughly, Cara's attendant smiled again and stroked her arm once more as if in reassurance.

As the water washed away the soap, Cara hoped the ordeal was nearing an end. The woman stepped away and retrieved another object from the floor, one Cara had not noticed before. She rubbed soap once more in to Cara's armpits then pressed a razor firmly to her skin, drawing it smoothly downwards. Cara held her breath, waiting for the pain, but none came. The woman in front of her was not so lucky and yelped, jerking against her rope, as her attendant caught her flesh with the blade.

Cara's legs received the same treatment, each being gently shaved smooth by the careful hands of the clothed woman. Cara sighed with relief as her attendant finished working on her second leg, but it was not over yet. Lathering the soap at Cara's groin, the attendant took a razor to the coarse hair growing there. With every couple of strokes she would wipe the blade on the flannel then return to Cara's flesh.

Judging by the gasps and squeals from behind her, Cara realised she was not the only one suffering the indignity. Terrified that the blade would slip, Cara held perfectly still as the other woman denuded her, stretching and pulling the skin to obtain better purchase. It took a number of minutes before she was satisfied with the feel of her handiwork but eventually the woman smiled and nodded. Cara felt her flush increasing beyond that which had been caused by the hot water and turned her head away from the other woman. Somewhere behind Cara a woman began to sniff, the ordeal finally too much for her.

Cara looked down at her own naked flesh and gasped. Where her hair had been was now a deep pink. Small dots of red were scattered over the surface and her skin had risen like gooseflesh. It was no wonder Cean-Sehohir had bound them, Cara thought, for she doubted many of them would have stood for such treatment had they been free to move.

Seven-seven-four left her beam slowly, favouring her hip. The prolonged walking had not helped the ache that had kept her awake for much of the night. I'm definitely getting too old for all this, she thought grimly as she took her place at the door. The woman in blue opened the door and stepped out into the drizzle. The  women followed in single file while Cean-Sehohir walked alongside.

Back in the main building the women were marched into the room where, the previous night, they had received their collars. The woman in blue indicated for them to sit at the tables. Cean-Sehohir walked between the benches, watching the women closely as they exchanged glances with their neighbours. Cara eyed him nervously, anxious not to attract attention but more scared to take her eyes off him.

Abruptly, Cean-Sehohir stopped walking and pointed his crop at one of the women. He gave the command which Cara felt pleased to recognise from the night before and the woman stood in her place and bowed. Cean-Sehohir queried something which Cara did not understand but the woman apparently did, for she answered him in his own tongue. Cara couldn't remember whether she was one of those who could speak both languages, or just his.

Again, Cean-Sehohir's eagle vision scanned the faces until they rested on another which drew his attention. Again, he demanded that she stand. Reluctantly, the indenture obeyed, giving an uneasy bow, her hands clasped in front of her fiddling with her dress. Cean-Sehohir tapped her fingers with the end of his crop and separated her hands until her arms rested by her sides.

Looking even more nervous now than she had before, the woman blinked rapidly. A query was put to her but by her tormented face she did not understand it. She bowed again and tried to recall how she had been told to address him last night. It came to her and her tongue stumbled over the unfamiliar sounds.
Cean-Sehohir repeated his question and a woman from Cara's table hissed a rough translation.

"He wants your number." Relief flooded over the standing indenture's face.

"Eight-two-one, Cean-Sehohir," she bowed again, scarcely daring to raise her eyes to see if he was pleased with her answer. Cean-Sehohir whirled round to locate the indenture who had interrupted. The woman on Cara's table saw his angry grimace and flushed a dark pink, holding her breath without realising she was doing so.

Cean-Sehohir's crop was soon tapping at the terrified woman's throat. She swallowed, her eyes wide and glued to the crop. Cean-Sehohir increased the upward pressure his crop exerted, bringing the woman to her feet. He guided her away from the bench until she stood before all the tables.

Cara watched, her heart in her mouth. The woman who was now the focus of the whole room's attention was no older than Cara herself, with a gaunt body and narrow, delicate features.

Cean-Sehohir brought his face close to hers, his beard catching spittle as he hissed a question at the girl. She stammered a reply in his own tongue. Cean-Sehohir spoke again and the young woman blanched. Her whispered pleas were to no avail as her new owner snapped the fingers of his free hand. The woman in blue glided silently to him and knelt, holding up a length of cloth between her open hands.

Cean-Sehohir hissed again in the young girl's face and lowered his crop. Hesitating for just a moment, the terrified indenture slowly turned so that her back was to her angry master. Taking the cloth from the kneeling woman, Cean-Sehohir tied a knot centrally in its length. Holding the strip to either side of the knot he brought his hands over the top of the young girl's head and pressed the knot to her lips.

Closing her eyes, the girl parted her lips, her teeth settling around the knot as Cean-Sehohir forced it into her mouth. He bound the loose ends tightly behind her head and instructed her to leave it in place and not touch the cloth. He turned the girl to face him once more and instructed her to re-take her seat. She bowed and fled back to the table.

Turning his attention back to his other new acquisitions, he was pleased to see eight-two-one still standing.

"Ocht-do-aon."

"Cean-Sehohir?" the woman queried, unable to understand the new language. He spoke slower, pronouncing each word carefully, then indicated for her to repeat her number in his language. Taking care over each word, she did so, earning a nod from Cean-Sehohir and an instruction to sit down.

The woman in the blue dress passed among the tables giving each indenture a small dish of nuts and raisins. Cara hesitated, waiting for the instruction to start eating, which came in the form of a nod from Cean-Sehohir. As they ate, the woman in blue set a small tumbler of juice by each woman then knelt on the floor beside where Cean-Sehohir stood.

Cara eagerly ate her food, the rich fruit sugars tasting wonderful after the bland savoury food she had eaten since her indenture. Sipping her orange juice, she stole a sideways glance at the young girl sitting gagged at her table. She sat staring bleakly straight ahead, her hands folded in her lap, trying not to cry. Occasionally she would suck back saliva which threatened to dribble if she lowered her head. From time to time she gave a deep sigh but mostly, it seemed to Cara, she sat pretending - or wishing - she was anywhere but there.

Finishing her breakfast, Cara looked around her and saw others were also waiting. Seven-seven-four caught her eye and gave her a quick smile. Cara returned it and glanced briefly at Cean-Sehohir. He was standing, arms folded, before the tables, the woman in blue kneeling patiently beside him. Nervously, Cara wondered what the rest of the day had in store.

She guessed they had been woken at dawn, for the sky seemed brighter now through the window of the hall than it had when they had crossed the ground to the stone building. Apart from the two women in blue dresses who had met them the night before, and the woman now beside Cean-Sehohir, Cara had seen no others in this place. So far it was impossible for her to tell how large it was, and she guessed that the two buildings she had seen so far were only part of her new home.

As she waited for the last few to finish their breakfast, Cara studied the kneeling woman. She could not tell whether or not she was one of those she had seen the previous night. Certainly she looked similar, with her long brown hair loose about her shoulders, her straight back and of course the matching blue dress and collar.

Cara found it impossible to guess what the woman might be thinking; her face was devoid of emotion. She simply knelt, a picture of patience, her head erect but her eyes focussed on a spot on the floor just in front of her, as one-one-three had in the stall. Cara wondered what it would take for her to reach the same stage of obedience. The thought flooded her with dread.

Once all the women had finished eating Cean-Sehohir ordered them all to stand. Cara, growing used to the strange words of this command now, obeyed. The woman in the blue dress also stood, but when Cean-Sehohir indicated for the women to line up at the door, she remained.

As they stood in a neat line at the door, Cean-Sehohir pulled the gagged woman from the line by her wrist. She looked up at him with fear, but he spoke quietly to her and she nodded and bowed. Reaching behind her, Cean-Sehohir undid the gag and took the knot from her mouth. She worked her jaw briefly then bowed to him again, thanking him in his own language before returning to the line.

Leading them back to the white-tiled latrine, Cean-Sehohir gave them a brief moment to relieve themselves then ushered them through a white gloss door in the far wall. Cara gasped as she walked through and saw the room on the other side.

The next morning Cara jerked awake to the sound of the outer rollerdoor being raised, then the doors to each of the four sleeping chambers. She lay still, her eyes trying to focus as someone thumped on a wooden stall to rouse the sleeping women. It took a moment for her to register where she was, then the events of the day before came flooding back to her. She gave a quiet moan and propped herself up onto her elbows, looking over to where seven-seven-four was also waking up.

Her eyes still partially sealed with sleep, seven-seven-four heaved herself onto all fours then clambered to her feet. Up and down the line of stalls, others were doing the same. Cara sighed, wishing she could sleep for longer, then joined them.

The twelve were ushered out of the sleeping chamber to the latrines, marginally better than those Cara had experienced so far and comprising a row of flushable lavatories in a white-tiled room. Cean-Sehohir said little other than to chide them when they were slow and to issue a light tap of his crop when he felt someone in the line was dawdling.

After using the latrines they were escorted through the building into the open air. A light mist had settled over the land, making it impossible to distinguish between air and sky. A light drizzle was falling and Cara shivered as the moisture gathered in chill droplets on her skin. Seven-seven-four, just ahead, moved stiffly, her aches from the previous evening not yet forgotten.

Across a yard they went, to a large stone shed with a low roof. Inside was a horizontal wooden cross, mounted on a vertical metal pole a little more than a metre high. Four chains hung from each horizontal beam, a small padlock dangling from each. The women huddled together inside the shed, drawing what little comfort they could from each other as they waited to find out what torment this room would bring.

Seizing the woman nearest to him by the wrist, Cean-Sehohir dragged her to one of the beams. Pushing her towards the centre, he took the third chain from the outside and shifted his grip on the indenture to the woman's throat. Pressing her chin upwards, he slipped the padlock through the D-ring of her collar and snapped it shut.

Recovering from her initial fear, the woman tried to back away but was pulled up by the chain. Stumbling, she tried again to move away from Cean-Sehohir but there was nowhere left for her to turn. She twisted away from him again but this time her back was against the beam. He loomed over her, watching intently as her eyes widened and she began to tremble.

He raised his hand sharply as if to slap her face and her mouth began to work, her lips moving silently. Abruptly, his hand stopped inches from her cheek. He savoured her involuntary flinch then patted her cheek twice before turning away to fetch the next woman.

Within a few short minutes all twelve were tethered three to a beam, the remaining innermost chains hanging free. Cara, on the outside of the beam behind seven-seven-four, swallowed her nausea at allowing herself to be chained. She hadn't dared to put up any form of resistance, having seen two be dealt harsh blows with the crop. She had, instead, followed seven-seven-four's example and allowed herself to be led to the beam. She had closed her eyes when the padlock was slid through, not wanting to risk glancing into Cean-Sehohir's eyes as he took away the remains of her freedom.

Standing back to admire his work, Cean-Sehohir was pleased he had found a balance among the twelve, with both weak and strong to each beam. Nodding his satisfaction he barked an order at the women, giving the end of the nearest beam a firm push to indicate his intention. The women, feeling the tug on their chains, began to move forward to keep pace with their beam.

With the crop for encouragement, the women leaned into the wooden bars, pushing them around at a steady pace. Cara was surprised at how smoothly they moved, almost without a sound.

The women settled into a rhythmic circle, losing track of their surroundings and focussing only on the patch of ground just ahead of them. To do otherwise caused dizziness, as Cara found out when she tried to take in the rest of the building.

Cean-Sehohir gave a further encouraging swipe with his crop as he heard a gentle tapping on the door of the building. On opening it, a woman wearing a dark blue shift dress to match her royal blue collar entered. She bowed, her hair shining silver with mist dew. Cean-Sehohir spoke a few words to her which Cara was not able to make out, then he walked to the wall where a large clock with no hands hung.

Twisting a dial on the clock face, Cara realised the clock was in fact a timer. Cean-Sehohir turned it all the way round, setting the women a one hour period of exercise. Clipping his crop to his belt, he left the stone building, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Seeing him leave, Cara, together with a number of the other women, relaxed over their beams a little. Just as Cara was passing the watching woman in blue, she heard the thin whoosh as the woman brought her own crop down across the back of Cara's shoulders. Yelping, Cara pressed herself into her beam once more, pushing forward with renewed vigour. She had not seen that the woman bore a crop, but had assumed she was merely there to watch over them.

Cara was not alone in thinking this, for seeing they would get no more favourable treatment from the woman in blue than they had from Cean-Sehohir, all twelve became more alert, casting watchful glances at the woman and the timer, slowly ticking off the minutes they would spend at their exercise.

The task was not arduous, the beams turned easily throughout, but the monotony weighed heavily on Cara. With no changing scenery, and no conversation taking place under the eagle eye of the woman in blue, Cara found herself in a type of waking sleep where her body obeyed her commands to keep moving forward, but her mind drifted away. Lost in such thought, she physically jumped when the timer on the wall emitted a loud ringing.

The woman in blue paid no attention to the timer other than to swipe her crop at the calves of those who hesitated when it rang. Within minutes, the door swung open and Cean-Sehohir strode through.

Not a tall man, Cean-Sehohir was broad of shoulder nonetheless and his brooding features and thickset neck gave him the permanent air of an angry bull. He was a little older than Cara had supposed him to be at the auction house, his thinning hair drawn back into a short ponytail. His coarse beard hung from the area around his mouth, burying his thin lips. Pale grey eyes peered from creased lids, and looking into them was like looking out of a cave on a stormy day.

Each of Cean-Sehohir's actions were lessons in conservation of energy. His stride, long and lean for his height, powered him across the ground until he stopped abruptly in front of the woman in blue. He spoke briefly to her, at the end of which the woman bowed and moved off towards the door. Just as Cara was about to push her beam past where Cean-Sehohir stood, he thrust his crop out at arm's length in front of her, just inches from her face.

Cara stopped, digging her bare feet into the dusty floor and pulled back hard on her beam. A number of the others had seen the action and stopped also, bringing the beams to a halt. One by one, Cean-Sehohir slipped a key into the padlocks chaining the women to the beams and motioned for them to stand by the door.

Taking her place, Cara began to get nervous. Many of the women here had reasonably short hair, not much beyond their shoulders. Hers was much longer. She hoped fervently that her new owner would not cut it off. She had heard of such things happening and reached up instinctively to hold hers close to her neck.

From their seated positions, Cara would be second. She turned to watch when Cean-Sehohir took the first woman by the upper arm and pushed her towards the waiting woman. As Cean-Sehohir's crop slammed into the table barely an inch from her arm, Cara jumped back to face the wall. The others, also stunned, did not try to turn around. They all sat perfectly still as they heard a small scuffle, then the snip of the scissors followed by a yelp. There was another small scuffle, more snips and then silence.

Cean-Sehohir returned to the bench for Cara, grasping her arm tightly. He walked her to the table on which lay his prepared tools and pushed her forward so that she was pushed face down on the surface, her arms pinned beneath her. Quietly whimpering, Cara fought her tears as her hair was gathered and the woman in blue, seated on the other side of the table, pulled it firmly, preventing Cara from struggling. Cara felt the cold steel on the flesh of her neck and gave another involuntary whimper. The blades snipped and the plastic tie which had served as her collar fell away.

The woman in blue tightened her grip on Cara's hair as Cean-Sehohir slipped a length of wide nylon webbing around Cara's neck, measuring the required length and cutting it from the roll. Before sealing the collar closed, he slipped a metal D-ring over one end of the nylon to act as an anchor point. Overlapping the nylon edges about Cara's neck, Cean-Sehohir slipped the narrow heated plates Cara had earlier mistaken for hair crimpers underneath and sealed the nylon shut, allowing enough slack to get his fingers underneath.

Cara realised she was holding her breath and slowly released it, grateful that she still had her hair but beginning to appreciate her new position. She had grown used to the plastic collar, if anything this new one was a little softer on her throat. What struck her like ice was that if her new owner had chosen to cut her hair, or even her throat itself, she would have been powerless to do anything about it.

Feeling weak and dizzy Cara allowed Cean-Sehohir to push her into place on a bench beside the first collared indenture. She barely noticed as he snipped away the plastic cuffs from her wrists and ankles, leaving her limbs free, but sat in silence as the other ten underwent the same treatment.

When all wore their new collars the two women in blue cleared the items from the table. Cara noticed that the collars the other indentures and, she presumed, she herself wore, were black yet those of the women in the dark blue dresses were a deep royal blue.

Cean-Sehohir walked in front of the benches of freshly collared indentures, occasionally adjusting the lie of a D-ring or the way one of the women's hands was folded in her lap. Finally he stood back and nodded. Cara saw a small, self-satisfied smile play on his lips for a moment and a shiver ran down her spine.

Without warning, Cean-Sehohir's crop was pointed at seven-seven-four. He barked an order at her and it hurt Cara's heart to see the pained look on seven-seven-four's face.

"Please Sir," she said, "I don't understand at all."

Cean-Sehohir's crop flew out in the direction of another of the women.

"What did I tell her?" He demanded. The startled woman stammered.

"You told her to stand, Cean-Sehohir." His crop flew back to seven-seven-four.

"That's two I owe you. Must I tell you again?" Seven-seven-four's lips worked but no sound came out. She shook her head and stood quickly. He barked another order in his own language, indicating a spot on the floor away from the bench with his crop. Seven-seven-four moved to stand on the spot. Cean-Sehohir grabbed her wrists and pulled her forward so her feet remained where he had indicated but her hands rested on a bench a couple of feet away.

"State the two lessons you are about to learn," he growled, leaning his hand on top of one of seven-seven-four's.

"To stand when ordered, Sir," seven-seven-four's voice was clear and did not waver. Cara hoped she could meet punishment with such dignity but doubted it severely. Bringing the crop back, Cean-Sehohir landed it with some force on the raised buttocks. Several of the watching women flinched as the crop struck home, as did seven-seven-four, though she did not make a sound.

Pointing his crop at the nearest woman to him on the bench, Cean-Sehohir barked the order he had given to seven-seven-four. Immediately the woman rose, more through guesswork than true understanding of the instruction. He repeated the command along the line until each woman was standing. Returning his attention to seven-seven-four he commended her.

"Well done, it seems your first lesson has been learned by twelve. Tell me, what is the second lesson, that I am now about to teach you?" Seven-seven-four gritted her teeth, unable to offer anything that wouldn't be a wild guess. Without warning Cean-Sehohir brought the crop back down on seven-seven-four's buttocks, causing her to yelp with the unexpected pain. Still unable to state her lesson, seven-seven-four silently took two further blows. Pointing randomly with his crop, he indicated for one of the standing women to recall the lesson. Her mind not obscured by pain, she told him.

"To always address you as Cean-Sehohir and bow when spoken to... Cean-Sehohir." She herself gave a small bow once she had finished speaking.

"Now do you understand your lesson?" He queried of seven-seven-four. Breathing deeply, she nodded.

"Yes, Cean-Sehohir."

Cean-Sehohir smiled and raised his crop once more.

"Then you will learn your lesson well." He brought it down hard, the impact causing the crop to bounce, making seven-seven-four flinch, though she did not make a sound. He motioned for her to stand and join her companions. On reaching an upright position, seven-seven-four turned to face Cean-Sehohir and gave him a small bow.

"Thank you, Cean-Sehohir," she said, then re-took her place at the bench.

Cara's eyes, though filled with tears, saw the anger blazing from seven-seven-four's. She took note of the way that she stood, her proud disdain for their new owner tarnishing any future respect she may have for him. Cean-Sehohir called his two blue-robed women to him and they ushered the new indentures from the hall.

Each sleeping chamber housed five straw-floored stalls, separated from the next by one timber uprights and slats. Four of the stalls would each accommodate up to four women and the fifth held two waste buckets. Only one of the sleeping chambers was open, the other three having a steel-mesh rollerdoor pulled down. Once all the women had entered the chamber and were choosing their stalls, Cean-Sehohir drew down the mesh door to their chamber, and Cara heard the soft click as the magnetic lock sealed it in place. just moments later, another door rolled into place, sealing off the sleeping chambers entirely.

Cara stayed close to seven-seven-four, fearful that they may be separated. When they bedded down, Cara nestled close, her arm about seven-seven-four's waist.

"Gentle, child," the older woman chided, moving away from the younger woman's eager embrace, "His blows still hurt." Cara whispered her apology and stroked seven-seven-four's arm. She hoped not all of their lessons were so difficult to learn. She could not recall the foreign phrase which meant she should stand up, and hoped they would have more time to learn the words.

Grateful not to be confined by wrist and ankle bonds as she had been at the auction house on the dock, Cara stretched out and closed her eyes, waiting for whatever the morning would bring.

Harnessed in place, the first two hours of stop-start travel tired the women. Their attempts at conversation had ceased with each halt of the vehicle and their anxiety levels had risen. When the truck drew to a stop and the engine was switched off, Cara's heart began to pound. Would this be the first glimpse of her new home, she wondered. When the tail ramp was lowered and the women saw they were at a truck stop, Cara saw several frustrated faces.

The cool air was refreshing after the heat of the stalls and stuffiness of the truck and Cara took the opportunity to stretch her legs once she had used the latrine. The chain had been removed after the women had been harnessed into the truck, but the man in the overcoat had brought out a narrow crop which he whisked back and forth whilst making threats in a language only two could understand.

It was clear when he wanted them to re-take their places in the truck for the man in the overcoat seized the nearest woman to the truck and threw her at the ramp, swiping at her with the crop as she scrabbled to climb back inside.

Cara eyed the crop warily, her memory fresh from the mild blow at the distribution centre. She grouped with the others as they hurried to climb the ramp on the furthest side from the swinging crop. Cara was one of the first back in the truck, escaping any injury for it was only the last two who caught a blow for their tardiness. They were all soon harnessed and on their way once more, each deep in thought about what they had learned from the unexpected lesson.

Cara, who feared the thought of being hurt almost as much as pain itself, knew she would have to do some serious learning very quickly. As she glanced at the faces around her she could see some had come to the same conclusion, while others nursed their anger and resentment.

The journey seemed to be well underway now, with few pauses to negotiate other traffic. The women relaxed a little and conversation began to flow again. It was likely that they would be spending quite some time in each others' company so they began to introduce themselves. Cara couldn't keep track of the numbers; it was just too much for one day. She allowed seven-seven-four to introduce her and just smiled weakly when the others offered her their greetings.
Within the next hour the light had faded and with no artificial source, the back of the truck was plunged into darkness. Conversation dwindled again, some of the women choosing to rest while they could, not knowing what would be ahead of them.

An hour after that, the truck made its final stop. The lights came on in the back and an apprehensive hush fell over the women. The tail ramp was lowered and the man in the overcoat pushed back his sleeve to check the time on his watch. Two women dressed in dark blue shift dresses stood at either side of the tail ramp as the man in the overcoat released the harnesses of his new purchases. He whisked his crop at the two lines and they hurried to stand and leave.
Outside the lorry, the two women in blue stopped the first indentures a little way from the truck and allowed the others to gather in behind them. They waited while the man in the overcoat locked the truck and came back to address the group. At first he spoke in the foreign tongue but when he asked a question and only four indentures raised their joined hands he reverted to English.

"Now how many can understand me?" The remaining eight indentures indicated they could now understand him, together with two who had also raised their hands to the foreign tongue. He continued to address them in English. "In your time here you will learn to speak only in my language. You will be taught basic commands and instructions, and to obey these fully and without hesitation. You will call me Cean-Sehohir at all times. When I address or dismiss you, you will bow, whether you are standing, sitting or kneeling." Cean-Sehohir repeated this speech in his own language then addressed one of the women in blue, also in his own tongue. She bowed from the waist.

"Gan dabht, Ceansaitheoir." Standing erect again, she went into the nearby building, a large single-storey stone construction that sprawled over much of the land enclosed by a double layer of fences.

Cean-Sehohir spoke briefly with the other woman in blue then indicated for her to lead the way into the building. Cara noticed she gave the same response when she bowed as had the first woman. The group moved at a pace to get out of the sudden wind which had sprung up and Cean-Sehohir closed the door behind them.

Cara noted the sparse furnishings of the entrance hall as they passed through, down the corridor to a longer room half filled with tables and long benches. Here the first woman in blue waited for them, a narrow roll of dark material, some scissors and metal objects and what Cara thought looked like hair crimpers on the table before her. Cean-Sehohir nodded his approval and indicated for the new indentures to seat themselves along one bench, facing towards the wall.

Cara and seven-seven-four were among the last few to leave the truck. By now, none were overly anxious to go beyond the inner gate and one of the stewards at the back began to turn a wheel on the base of the truck. One of the remaining women yelped as the side she had been leaning against began to move, narrowing the space remaining in the truck cage and squeezing the women towards the inner gate. The other steward used his staff on the women, bringing them forward towards the gate until, one by one, they left the truck cage.

Cara was pushed through just ahead of seven-seven-four and found herself thrust through the doorway, temporarily blinded until her eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the building. Strong arms held and guided her as she entered an unlit s-shaped corridor. Hurrying towards the light ahead of her, Cara couldn't resist glancing back for seven-seven-four but could see nothing in the darkness.

Emerging from the narrow corridor, Cara found herself in a large pit with concrete sides. Seven feet above, people peered over a guard-rail, watching those below intently. Within the pit were three stewards, one guarding the entrance from where she had just arrived and two separating out individual women and forcing them through the exit into another corridor.

Cara leaned against the concrete side and a steward immediately came over, flicking his dowel staff at her. Reluctantly, Cara moved into the open area and began shuffling a wide circle along with the others.

A call came down the exit ramp and the two stewards indicated for an individual to leave the pen. When the chosen girl didn't respond but moved further into the circling women the stewards pushed after her, rapping those that didn't move out of their way fast enough, until they caught up with the hobbled woman. Rather than drag her forcibly out, the stewards used their dowel staffs to push the woman towards the ramp, each time she slowed giving her an extra thrust.

Distracted, Cara did not catch sight of seven-seven-four before she herself was the object of the stewards' attention. Trying to pull away towards the edge of the pen, one of the stewards rapped Cara smartly on the back of her thighs with his staff. Someone in the crowd above cheered, heightening Cara's mortification at being treated like cattle.

The ramp was steep and Cara struggled to climb it with her ankles joined as they were. At the top another steward took her by her upper arm, helping her up the last few steps. Taking stock of her surroundings, Cara saw she was now on a raised stage. Behind her she could see the guard-rails surrounding the top of the pen she had been in, and the crowd of indents thronging below, some staring up at her but most shuffling anxiously in the hope of avoiding blows from the stewards' dowels. On the stage, aside from the steward, was a broad man in a suit and in front of him a desk. The steward passed a scanner over Cara's shoulder and the suited man read from a monitor built into the desk.

Unable to understand him, Cara watched in shock. She did not complain when the steward turned her around to show the crowd her back, but when he raised her arms she struggled and fought, instinctively trying to curl herself into a ball. The steward brought his dowel down hard on the backs of her legs and hauled her upright again, his dowel pressed firmly under her chin. This time she let him raise her arms and did not fight when he put his hands about her waist to demonstrate her slimness through her dress.

Cara's vision was blurred as she looked out across the crowd through brimming tears and saw she had at least four people responding eagerly to the suited auctioneer's rising figures. She was unable to understand the numbers for they were not in English, so she anxiously watched the faces of the people who bid for her until only two remained. Both were men in their early forties; one wearing a suit, the other a large overcoat.

The auctioneer also looked from one to the other as the bidding increased. When the suit hesitated to increase his bid the auctioneer queried him and the suit shook his head. After a pause, the auctioneer brought his hammer down and the man in the overcoat held up his auction number for the auctioneer to note on his console. The steward used a black marker to note the same number on the back of Cara's left hand before leading her in front of the auction desk to the exit ramp

Cara stumbled down the ramp, unable to comprehend how quickly it had all taken place. At the bottom of the ramp Cara pushed her way through a hinged barrier and saw a large rectangular room about the size of a small supermarket. At the far side indentures clustered under numbers painted in black on the wall. She glanced down at her left hand and saw the auction number 1725 appeared upside down to her, though easy enough for others to read.
A steward came from the side and grasped her wrist, raising her hand to read her number. Pulling her along behind him, he made his way across the floor to where a number of indentures huddled under the number 17. At first glance Cara thought they were seeking comfort from each other, until she saw the chain snapped to their collars. Some were chained individually to the wall of the pen, others were joined in a string, only the end indenture being tethered to the wall.

The steward checked the number on two or three hands then, seeing a number matching Cara's, he found the free end of that chain and joined Cara to the line of eight others.

Watching the steward walk away, Cara turned anxious eyes to the others in her line.

"Are you English?" One of them asked her. Cara nodded. "That's ok then, looks like we're all in this together. Apart from the two at the end there, we all speak English." Cara nodded again, wondering if that was meant to reassure her.

"Has the same man bought us all then?" Cara was curious to know.

"It seems that way, so I don't think we've gone to a private owner," another answered.

"Hush now," the first said, seeing a door in the wall open and a steward head in their direction.

Cara watched the steward check the numbers on a hand to her right, then he grasped hers, turning it to read it better before moving on to the next individual. Two hands later he found the number he was seeking on a woman cowering against the wall and unclipped the chain. The steward led the woman, mewling and pulling, from the pen by the chain, closing the door behind him.

"She'll have gone to a private owner." Someone in Cara's line said.

"What do you mean by private owner?" Cara was unaware of the term.

"It's when a person buys an indent for themselves, rather than on behalf of a company. Sometimes it's a better life, the work's often less hard, sometimes they treat you like a pet and you get looked after really well. Other times..." the speaker shook her head, "well, sometimes it's better to be bought by a company." Cara swallowed, understanding now the woman's reluctance to face her new life. Apart from her mother, she had only seen company-owned indentures. This was a whole new world to her and she wasn't sure if she wanted to learn more.

Cara watched as the steward brought another purchased indenture across the floor to the chains. It wasn't seven-seven-four and Cara wondered how soon her auction would come up. She hoped to at least be able to say goodbye to her before being taken home by her new owner.

Cara gave a small snort. Her owner. It was hard to believe how her life had changed in the last few weeks. She was already beginning to lose track of the days. Had she been in the distribution centre two days or three? Could it have even been four? She had tried to keep count but each day had seemed so long she wondered if she had counted any twice.

Now here she was, waiting to be collected by some stranger who had bid for her based on her few moments on the stage. She recalled how she had struggled when the steward had tried to raise her arms and wondered what kind of bidder that had attracted. It had certainly not been the most sensible thing she could have done. She recalled the advice seven-seven-four had given her in the stall, to be polite and obedient. She had failed on both counts.

Another indenture was being led across the floor and Cara smiled as she recognised it was one-one-three. The woman managed to walk gracefully even when hobbled, Cara admired. Seeing her being tethered to the wall on her own, Cara guessed she had been bought by a private purchaser and was not surprised.

Four more were brought down, two of which were tethered to the chain Cara shared. She wondered how many more would join them before she was taken from there.

The next to come through was seven-seven-four and Cara's heart leaped to see her. Seven-seven-four held herself erect as she was led across the floor, scanning the indentures at the sides of the room. When she looked directly in front of her there was Cara, smiling.

Oh, the luck, the luck, thought Cara as seven-seven-four joined her chain. The older woman returned Cara's smile and gave her hand a quick squeeze then stepped back into her place at the end of the chain.

After a wait that felt like hours, but was in reality only thirty minutes, a steward emerged from the side door and made his way towards Cara's chain. Releasing them from the wall he led them out through the side door into a counter area. Another steward stood at a computer behind the counter, chatting with the man in the overcoat who stood on the other side. Separating the indentures from the rest of the shop was a grill from floor to ceiling; the sliding hatch which would allow access through was closed.

The steward shut the door behind seven-seven-four and the twelve indentures and they huddled tightly. He moved through them showing the man in the overcoat the left hand of each indenture, bearing the man's auction number. Once the man in the overcoat had confirmed each bore his number, the steward scanned the women's chips with a small reader which he passed through a narrow opening in the grillwork to his colleague behind the counter.
The counter steward docked the reader in a port attached to his computer and waited while the data was transferred. The steward pecked at the keyboard and the printer began to hum and churn out twelve pieces of paper. These were handed to the man in the overcoat and the steward with the indentures made ready to release the women.

Cara watched as the steward passed a fob over a reader panel and the hatch slid upwards smoothly, allowing an exit only three feet high. With his hand pressing the back of the first indenture's head, he firmly guided the first woman down into a crouch and out through the hatch. The tug of the chain, still attached to all twelve, caused each to follow in turn.

As Cara felt the pull at her throat, she crouched down onto all fours and shuffled through. On the other side, the man in the overcoat cut the hobble of each as they stood up, allowing them to walk more freely. The chain he kept in place. Taking his leave of the stewards he held the twelve women back to allow another successful bidder to enter to claim his purchase, then led them to his waiting truck.

Many thanks to polely for the much-needed boot up the backside to crack on with my story.

For anyone who has only just come to my journal, the chapters are in reverse order so you will need to view my full profile in order to read all of the previous parts of this story.

Many thanks for all your words of encouragement, I hope you enjoy the latest instalment.

"Did you manage to sleep?" Cara asked.

"I did. I only sleep for a couple of hours each night."

"I think this must be the longest I've slept since my dad died." It felt an age away, Cara couldn't believe it was less than two full months.

"I'm sorry for your loss." Cara smiled at the woman and thanked her.

"I'm afraid I don't know your name, I'm Cara... six-three-one." The other woman smiled and nodded.

"One-one-three," she responded. She had taken up her place near the gate again and now whispered urgently to Cara. "We'd best wake the others; they're beginning to come in."

"Who are?" asked Cara, beginning to shuffle towards the gate to have a look.

"No time, just wake them." One-one-three moved from the gate and nudged one of the sleeping women. Cara followed suit. By the time the first people had reached Cara's stall, all five women were awake and waiting anxiously. The first to reach them was a steward in a fluorescent jacket. He said nothing but gave them each a cursory glance before moving on to the next stall.

Shortly after he had inspected all the stalls, others began to peer in; some stayed only a moment or two, others lingered, studying one or other of the women. Cara moved to the back of the stall and sat behind the water bucket, uncomfortable at being on display in this way. From there, she could observe the viewers before they noticed her. One-one-three did not move from her spot by the gate.

The day spent in the warmth with abundant food and a good night's sleep had done all five the world of good, Cara thought as she looked around. They did not look as tired: their eyes were less sunken and their cheeks more rosy. Even one-one-three looked healthier.

Cara's smile froze when she saw a visitor lock his eyes on one-one-three and speak to her in a foreign tongue. One-one-three seemed to understand him no better than Cara had done and merely lowered her eyes. The man appeared to become more agitated and spoke sharper to her. Cara watched as one-one-three gave a small kneeling bow and addressed the man.

"I am sorry Sir, I do not understand your language." This seemed to anger the man further and he began to bark at her and reach for something attached to the back of his belt. One-one-three dropped forward, her face to the floor, her thin arms extended before her towards the man. A steward hurried over and spoke with the man, whose anger dissipated as they talked. The man asked the steward a question and the steward spoke to one-one-three.

"Stand up, woman. Slowly turn around so he can see you." One-one-three looked up fearfully but did as she was bid, lowering her eyes once she was on her feet and turning with hesitant, shuffling steps. The man spoke again and the steward told one-one-three to step up to the gate and open her mouth. When she obeyed without hesitation the man smiled and nodded at the steward. He took a small flashlight from his pocket and shone it into one-one-three's open mouth. One-one-three averted her eyes skyward, her hands by her sides, and did not move a muscle until the steward gave her the instruction to relax and that she may be seated again.

One-one-three sank gracefully to a kneeling position, her eyes focussed once more on the floor just in front of the man. She neither relaxed nor sat back until he had moved away from the stall, at which point she breathed a deep sigh and her closed eyelids fluttered.

The scene was replayed many times at each stall throughout the morning. Cara was horrified when one visitor gestured for her to step forward from the back for closer examination. The visitor was a woman, stern and lean, wearing a dark trouser suit. Her short dark hair toughened up the feminine features of her face and she pointed a long finger at Cara then beckoned her forward.

Cara took a deep fortifying breath, her eyes locked on the woman, and stood. The straw rustled as Cara's hobbled feet shuffled through it to stand three feet inside the stall. The woman spoke to Cara in a foreign language then, getting no response, switched to slightly accented English.

"How old are you?" She asked. Cara cleared her throat twice before she could find her voice.

"Twenty two," she whispered.

"Stand sideways; raise your hands above your head." Cara glanced back into the stall, seeking encouragement. All four women were studiously looking elsewhere. Cara filled with gratitude at being allowed this small privacy. She did as she had been instructed, though despite the distance and the metal gate between her and the visitor, she still felt intensely vulnerable with her hands above her head.

Watching her visitor, she saw her eyes were focussed on her breasts and instinctively drew her arms down to cover her chest, clasping her hands at her throat.

"Too green," she heard the woman mutter, making a note in a small book she drew from her handbag. The woman moved on and Cara edged back into the stall, sinking into the straw with relief.

By the end of the morning there was only the occasional visitor until the roller door rose.

"It's starting," One-one-three called from the gate. Cara and the others moved to see a truck reverse into the central channel. Instead of solid sides, its back was made of wire mesh with a double-gated entry at one side.

Cara watched as the occupants of four stalls from her side of the shed were loaded into the truck, first the outer gate opening to allow an indenture into a small caged area, then when the outer gate had been closed, the inner one allowed the indent into the main area of the truck. With twenty people inside, there was no room to do anything but stand. Both gates were secured and the truck drove forward, the roller door coming down behind it.

Cara sank back into the straw, hugging her knees to her chest. Her companions were similarly thoughtful and, half an hour later when the roller door rose again, exchanged nervous glances.

This time, the first four stalls on the other side of the shed were emptied and silence came once more to the shed. Cara was pretty sure her stall would be in the next batch, if they took four more from her side. She picked a handful of muesli and nibbled. She was not hungry, in fact felt quite nauseous with fear, but there was nothing else to do and she needed some form of distraction.

A steward came over and studied the next four stalls to be taken. It wasn't long before the truck returned and the three stalls to Cara's right were emptied. The steward ordered the five women in Cara's stall to kneel at the back then indicated with his piece of dowel for them to come out one by one. A narrow ramp led up to the outer gate at the back of the truck and Cara was the last to take her turn at shuffling through the straw and up the ramp whilst the steward grasped her arm.

Once through the outer gate, Cara could move no further forward as another gate blocked her way. That gate did not open until the outer one was firmly closed and the ramp removed, then she was free to enter the tight confines of the truck cage.

Not wanting to lose sight of seven-seven-four, Cara squeezed her way through to stand next to her for the journey. It only lasted for ten minutes but with their ankles hobbled, the indentures had difficulty maintaining their balance and clung tightly to each other.

Seven-seven-four saw the fear on Cara's face and brought her hands up to stroke her cheek.

"Don't yer be frettin' now; the hard part's nearly done. With any luck yer'll go to a good owner and that'll be the end of yer concerns, y'hear?" Cara nodded mutely, touched by the concern the older woman had for her. A lump in her throat prevented her from thanking her so she thrust herself forward in an armless hug and closed her eyes.

When she drew back, Cara saw they had arrived at the back of a large stone building. Two stewards waited for the truck to reverse so the rear gate met the open doorway into the building, then slid the ramp out into the opening. One steward stood on either side of the ramp and the inner gate was opened. The steward used his dowel staff to coax the nearest indenture through the inner gate, then it was sealed. When the outer one opened, both stewards reached in and grabbed the indenture, steadying her down the ramp and through the doorway, the darkness inside swallowing her from view.

"Are you scared?" Cara looked at seven-seven-four, her warm face almost healed, and received a wide grin in return.

"At the moment, treasure, I'm warm and 'ave food and water to 'and. There's nothin' to be scared of. Later may be a different matter, but I'll judge that then, not now. Now I must make the most of what I 'ave 'ere," she gave Cara a friendly nudge with her elbow. "I suggest you might like to try the same."

The day passed slowly, the stalls along both sides of the shed filling as more indentures were brought from Cara's and other ferries. On seeing how the other custodians treated their charges, Cara became very grateful to have had the tall, cheerful woman, and commented on this to seven-seven-four.

"Oh aye," replied the older woman. "Yer'll find that sometimes, yer'll get a good 'un who treats yer like yer part-way 'uman. Don't expect it to 'appen too often though, cuz it won't! But she's the kind of owner yer'll be wanting to appeal to, so smile nice, be polite and do as they tell yer when it comes to the market. The trick is to raise yer price beyond the means of the one who just want cheap disposable labour." At the end of this long speech, seven-seven-four sighed and shook her head. "Listen to me, ramblin' on like that, anyone'd think I was an authority on the subject." She laughed, and Cara smiled back.

"Doesn't always work like that, you know." Cara and seven-seven-four looked up at the woman seated near the gate, her back against the stall partition, her knees bent to her chest. She had barely spoken for the entire journey, but had kept herself withdrawn. Now her voice was flat and humourless, her eyes barely able to keep contact with either seven-seven-four's or Cara's.

"Go on then treasure, what's yer story?" Seven-seven-four wanted to know. The woman took a deep breath, debating the wisdom of having spoken at all. She looked directly at Cara.

"How old do you think I am, girl?" Cara hesitated, studying the other woman's face. She was definitely older than Cara herself, but younger than seven-seven-four. Her hands were worn, her skin rough and lines hung about her face as the last autumn leaves. Cara shrugged.

"Thirty five?" Cara tried to be generous with her guess, reducing her initial estimate by a couple of years.

"Try twenty eight." Out of the corner of her eye, Cara saw even seven-seven-four crane forward as if to take a better look. The two other women in the stall were now also paying attention and the twenty eight year old gritted her teeth. "Alright, alright, no need to stare. Just proving a point is all. Even those with money can be hard on a girl."

Cara exhaled and shook her head. She felt no better than she had earlier and almost wished she hadn't spoken at all. Seven-seven-four had no such feelings, and wanted to know more.

"How long have yer been indentured?"

"Seven years so far. I got life for helping an indent escape." Cara knew this was the standard punishment for anyone working against the indenture system, and found it impossible to imagine being trapped in a system, believing it was wrong and knowing you would never be free again. Once a Court's sentence had been passed, even the owner of an indent could not overrule it and grant early freedom.

"Didn't you think of that before you did it?" Cara couldn't help but ask.

"Of course I did! The plan was not to get caught at it. At least the Courts didn't find out about the others, or I'd have never got out of the prison indenture system."

Cara looked quizzically at the woman, knowing nothing of the scheme. The woman rolled her eyes, fidgeting, her discomfort with the subject obvious.

"It's what they do with all rebellious indents. You're no better than a prisoner yourself, but they work you like a dog, scrubbing the cells, doing the laundry. You only get to eat what the prisoners leave. It was three years before I saw daylight that didn't come through bars. You spend four hours doing drill every day, there's never a moment when they're not watching over you, even when you're asleep." The woman's jaw clenched as she recalled those days.

"Some moved on within a year, others were there when I arrived and still there when I left - those with more than one conviction, mostly. Like I say, I was lucky they didn't know about the others. Finally I was assessed as being fit for auction and got a good price, figured I'd done pretty well for myself til I realised I was a present for his wife. I just pray I'll not be owned by a woman again." At this, the young woman closed her eyes and hugged her knees silently. Cara was about to ask another question but seven-seven-four touched her arm and shook her head. Cara understood. Some things, she thought, were better not to know.

As the light began to fade for the day, Cara heard the roller door being raised and the sound of an engine idling. Men's voices carried from the entrance of the shed, calling instructions to those nearest them. It took time for them to make their way down to Cara's stall and she shuffled forward to the gate to see what they were doing.

There were three men, one driving a truck and one man walking to either side. At each pair of stalls they would stop and speak to the occupants, though Cara could not make out what was being said. She shuffled back to her place by seven-seven-four and told her what she had seen.

"This'll be our evenin' meal then," she said.

She was soon proved right when the truck stopped near their stall. A man stood by the gate with a bucket and a hose. He instructed them to kneel at the back of the stall and they obeyed, shuffling through the straw. The stall was just wide enough for all five women to kneel next to each other.

"You," he nodded to the twenty eight year old, who knelt at one end. "Bring your food bucket to the gate then stand there." He indicated a spot to Cara's right, to the side furthest from the gate.

The woman lowered her eyes as she whispered her acknowledgement, then rose and did as she had been instructed. She stood, head lowered, her hands clasped before her as the man opened the gate, replaced the nearly empty food bucket with a full one, topped with chunks of bread and cheese, and closed the gate again. Through the metal lattice he slid the end of a hosepipe before carrying the empty bucket to the rear of the truck. On the back was also a large bowser. He stood at the tap and directed that the woman should return to the back, put the end of the hose in the water bucket and share the food between the five of them, then they would all be free to move.

Until given this instruction, Cara noticed the woman had not moved a muscle but had kept her eyes on the ground. Cara marvelled at her self-discipline, but dreaded to think what she must have endured to gain it.

When the woman returned to the back of the stall, she handed out the pieces of bread and cheese, one to each woman. Cara fell ravenously about hers, the taste of the muesli having become monotonous throughout the day.

The water bucket filled, the man turned off the tap and tugged the hose out through the grill. The truck continued on its way to the end of the shed, then turned and left.

Being able to graze throughout the day, Cara hadn't felt hungry. Now, with the bread and cheese inside her and the warmth of the heaters above, she felt sleepy. Watching as others yawned and stretched out Cara knew she was not alone in her feelings. It was now completely dark outside, the only light coming from the electric strips in the central channel.

Cara bunched the straw underneath her and lay down on her side, her eyes closed. For the first time since her ordeal had begun, Cara felt able to relax in the warm straw and let sleep wash over her.

Cara felt cold fingers wrapping around her upper arm and twisted to see the woman behind her clinging to her for comfort. Her eyes were wild, her breathing ragged. Cara's heart went out to the woman, but felt in a position to offer little enough comfort. She gave a small, thin-lipped smile as they were both tugged forward up the ramp into the darkness ahead.

Inside the hold, Cara saw it was not as black as it had appeared. Small ceiling lights illuminated a labyrinth of passageways, from which came row upon row of cabin cells. Their pug-faced custodian led them through this maze with ease, located a specific cabin cell and swung the door wider open. Several blankets were folded at intervals on the thin, dirty mattresses laid around the edge of the small room. Cara, pushed together with the other women into the room, huddled whilst their custodian unclipped the chain from his security belt and fastened it to a ring set low down in the cabin wall.

Moving back along the chain, he pushed the indentures to the mattresses. Cara shivered and shrank back against the wall when his podgy fingers lingered on her arm, his thumb tracing the outline of her breast through the thin material of her dress. She held her breath, unable to meet his eyes in case he took it as encouragement to continue. As he moved on, she clenched her teeth to try to keep her temper in check. Her heart was pounding so hard she felt it must be shaking her whole body. She didn't even notice when the door was closed with a heavy click, the only light now coming in through the small window from the corridor.

Hungry and tired, the women laid themselves out as best they could on their chain, huddling for warmth and sharing blankets. The constant thrum of the engines was easier to ignore than the erratic, sometimes choppy motion of the ferry as it carried them on the next stage of their journey. Cara slept fitfully, waking often. Nobody talked, though some cried. Cara refused to give in to her tears so soon. With five years ahead of her, she knew she would need to be strong to make it through. She was determined to return with her head held high and pick up what she could of her life. Closing her eyes again, Cara slept for what was left of the night.

The next morning, stiff and aching, the women were woken by the sound of cabins being unlocked and other indentures being led from their cabins. The door to their cabin was also opened, bathing the small room in harsh light. Struggling to focus, Cara was glad to see that they were no longer in the care of yesterday's custodian.

This custodian was a woman, tall and broad, in her early thirties Cara guessed. She wore a ready smile and spoke cheerfully to the indentures whilst she unfastened the chain and snapped it to her belt. Relaxing a little, the women staggered into the brilliant white corridor behind their custodian and followed her out into the February sunshine of the receiving port.

At the check-out desk, the indentures were scanned once more, a hand-held reader being passed over their left shoulder like goods in a supermarket. The women shivered and huddled together whilst the cheerful custodian and the desk steward made small talk between themselves then indicated where the indentures should be taken. Cara tried to hear what was being said, but when they spoke with each other, it was not in a language Cara knew. Going by the accent of the cheerful custodian when she had spoken to them in the cabin, Cara guessed they were in Ireland. This gave her small comfort and she continued to cling with the others for warmth and comfort until she felt the pull on the chain at her wrists.

The dock was vast, Cara could see no end to it; just a sea of bustle, people busy about their day's work already. The sun was still low to the east, so she guessed it could only be about eight o' clock. They must have been travelling for fourteen or fifteen hours all told, she calculated. Even seven-seven-four seemed subdued. They all wore the same sunken eyes and none tried to start a conversation. Cara could no longer feel the ground beneath her numbed feet and was grateful when they moved off in the direction indicated by the desk steward.

The chain of women was led to a barrier opened by a fob which the cheerful custodian produced. She had resumed talking in English and indicated the large sheds of breezeblock and wood ahead of them.

"In there you'll get food and water, and be able to use the latrine. You'll be able to rest there awhile; it'll be nice and warm so make yourselves at home."

"Where are we going?" One of the indentures found her voice, spurred on by the custodian's friendly manner.

"Oh, could be a number of places," she replied, "this port leads to anywhere. Come along now, sooner we get you all in the warm, sooner you can rest." The chain picked up a little speed, encouraged by a fresh gust of sea wind.

Before them, the building they had seen in the distance now looked more like a hangar. It was only one storey high, but wide and very long. A large roller door, big enough to allow a vehicle to pass through, was lowered but to its side was a smaller door for pedestrians, which the custodian unlocked with her fob.
They passed through one by one, luxuriating in the heat they felt instantly on entering through the doorway. Cara was hesitant to pass through, not knowing what was beyond, but the thought of food and water gave her strength.

Inside, Cara studied the layout of the building. They were stood in a central corridor the width of the roller door. Translucent ceiling panels allowed plenty of light into the hangar, though artificial lights hung from the ceiling at regular intervals along the central corridor. Above, heating elements cast down their warmth, making the temperature easily bearable after the perishing cold outside.

To either side of the corridor were stalls lined with straw. Sturdy wooden panels five feet high partitioned the stalls from each other, with metal bars continuing the remaining few feet to the sloping ceiling. The front of each stall was metal grillwork, the gate forming half the width of the stall. Many of the stalls already housed indentures, five per stall, but they were led further down to where the stalls were mostly empty. Unclipping the chain from her belt, the tall custodian fastened the clip to the grillwork of an empty stall.

"Kneel down, my pets." She instructed. The heat, the hunger and the way the custodian made everything seem so normal brought a wave of nausea over Cara. She fought the dizziness which accompanied it and lowered herself to her knees in the straw outside the stall, along with her companions. She shot a sideways glance at seven-seven-four, just two women away from her, and saw she looked less worried than she had earlier. She caught Cara's eye and flashed a quick smile, which Cara gratefully returned.

The custodian had bent down behind the row of kneeling women but Cara could not see what she was doing until she reached her. The custodian brought out a long strip of plastic which she threaded between Cara's ankle straps and fastened securely. Again, the nausea came and Cara clung to the metal grill in front of her. Wasn't it bad enough, she thought, that they were going to be locked in stalls like animals? She lifted one knee to test the new bond and found there was more slack than she had expected, but she doubted she would be able to break it in a hurry.

The custodian opened the gate to the first empty stall and unclipped the chain from the grillwork. Cara watched, still kneeling, as the first five women were released from the chain and guided into the stall. The gate was closed and tested before the custodian opened the next one and encouraged the remaining women to rise and go inside. As each shuffled forward, she released them from the chain, closing the gate behind the last one.

Cara was relieved to have been in the same five as seven-seven-four and moved towards her whilst she took in the contents of the stall. To one side was a large bucket of water, next to which was a smaller bucket containing what looked to Cara like dried muesli. At the very back of the stall was a gutter, over which was mounted a low wooden beam. The gutter was constantly flushed by a perfumed blue liquid and Cara guessed this to be the latrine. She couldn't decide whether this was better, or worse than the cess pit they had used at the truck stop, but at least it didn't smell.

On seeing the latrine, two of the women used it immediately. The journey had been long and Cara also felt the urge, but waited until the others had finished and she had the beam to herself.

Cara joined the others as they breakfasted on the dried muesli, sipping water from her cupped hand to moisten it. She heard the women in the next stall doing the same, and it was a while before conversation returned.

"What is this place?" Cara asked seven-seven-four, who shook her head.

"Not sure, treasure, but I'm guessin' we'll be 'ere 'til the next market."

Cara's heart sank. She had hoped her journey would be nearly over, but it seemed it had barely begun. She had never been to the indenture markets they had held in her home town, her parents had always taken great pains to impress they were not places for young girls to go alone. She had once begged her father to take her when they were next in town, but he had been adamant and forbidden her to bring the subject up again. Reluctantly, she had obeyed, though her curiosity had not abated. Now it seemed she would be about to find out.

The next day dawned as stark and grey as its predecessor. The only difference was the rain which hammered down from all angles, battering all four faces of the bleak brick building. Cara's head pounded in sympathy as the corridor bell roused her and she kicked off the covers. Either she was getting used to the temperature in her cell, or it was marginally warmer than it had been. She pulled her dress on over her head, appreciating the sense of normality it gave her to get dressed in the morning. She dragged the washcloth over her face, forcing her eyes to open and focus, then tidied her blanket and sat on the edge of her bed, waiting to be taken to breakfast.

That day passed in much the same way as the first, the basket returned full of clothes needing to be mended and she and seven-seven-four worked steadily through to lunch. Once they had all eaten, they sat in heavy silence as the masculine-looking woman from the previous day walked in, followed by one orderly. She called several indentures out to stand before the orderly, but when she called the next number, nobody moved. No indenture stood, or made any move to identify herself.

"Four-eight-five, this is your second and last chance." The orderlies scanned the faces of the indentures seated, their eyes glued on her. Only one kept her eyes down, staring in fixed concentration at the table. That table's orderly moved with deliberation to stand behind the terrified indenture. Unable to read the number on the back of her dress, she grabbed a handful of hair and viciously yanked it to one side, grunting confirmation that she had found the correct girl.
Four-eight-five let out a yelp and struggled to step out from behind the bench as the orderly dragged her by the hair to stand at the end of the line. At a signal from the woman with the clipboard, the orderly raised her crop and brought it down hard on the back of the indenture's thighs three times. Only then did she release four-eight-five's hair from her fist. Four-eight-five shook, trying not to cry or show emotion.

Two more were called out, then the line was led from the refectory. Cara was not alone in looking shocked and scared. Some had seen this, and worse, before but for many it was their first time in a distribution centre. As far as effectiveness went, thought Cara, it was a very good incentive to behave. They filed back to their cells silently, each lost in their own thoughts.

The next day, seven-seven-four's number was called out first. Squeezing Cara's hand under the table, she whispered in her ear as she stood up.

"Chin up, treasure, be brave." Cara watched her line up with trepidation, feeling lost already. She was so lost in thought that her number had to be called out twice before she registered that she was to stand too. Anxious not to receive the same treatment as she had witnessed yesterday, she rose and walked quickly to the end of the line. The orderly for her table, however, was not satisfied and caught Cara a stinging blow to the back of her thighs with her crop. Instinctively, Cara bent to rub her legs, her mouth open in shock and about to respond when the orderly raised an eyebrow and shook her head at Cara.

"Either obey the first time, or be taught the hard way." The subject was not open for discussion. Fighting tears of humiliation and anger, Cara closed her mouth and waited in line as three others were called out to complete the order. She followed those before her through the door, down a series of passageways and out into the bright light of the yard.

The sun was out, but did nothing to thaw either the air or Cara's spirits. A single layer truck, much smaller than the one which had brought her here, stood in the yard. The driver and his mate waited by the open back for the checking out to be completed so they could load their charges into the hold and depart.
The woman who had held the clipboard in the refectory had followed them out and now produced a hand-held scanner. One by one she went down the line, scanning the indentures' chips and completing her paperwork. She tore off a sheet and gave it to the driver, who nodded and moved towards the line of indentures. Little resistance was offered and the ten were soon harnessed inside the truck and the back raised into place.

Still no-one said a word. The engine started, lights came on and gusts of hot air began to fill the back, chasing away the numbing cold. The steady movement of the truck soothed Cara's fears. Her legs no longer stung from the crop's blow, but her pride was still injured and she nursed it silently, her head down.

Bit by bit, as the occupants relaxed into the long journey ahead of them, conversation began. At first, whispered greetings were exchanged between neighbours, then across the gap between the seats. They had been seated in two rows of five, facing inwards, and could make each other out by the light from the air vents running down each side of the truck, just above head height.

They were a mixture of young and middle aged, but all appeared healthy and strong, capable of doing a range of work. Cara sat quietly in the midst of the whispered conversation, only raising her head when seven-seven-four called from opposite.

"You alright, pet?" She nodded and smiled in answer, not quite trusting her voice. "Don't yer worry none about back there, it's nothing personal, they've just got a job to do and they like to be seen to be doin' it." Cara nodded again, she understood the sense of what the older woman said, but she still felt mortified by the public way in which she had been disciplined even after she had obeyed.

A couple of hours into the journey, someone voiced a question that had been at the back of Cara's mind.

"Do you think we'll be stopping soon? I could do with going to the loo." Judging by the groans which arose, others had been trying to distract themselves from the same thought. A woman in her early thirties answered.

"These trucks usually stop every four hours, we should be able to go then."

"How long have we been going now?"

"You can't tell in the back here. It's getting darker, so I'd say about two or three hours so far."

"What if you have to go before they stop?"

"I wouldn't recommend it, love. They're not at all keen on that." Silence fell again, and the truck continued with each woman lost in her own thoughts.

Time edged slowly onwards, the rhythmic rocking of the truck and the hum of the engine lulling its occupants. A little less than four hours after the truck had pulled away from the distribution centre, it stopped. It would be a long journey, so the drivers would need to swap regularly. The indentures were aware they had stopped and waited to find out if it would be for refreshments, or if this would be the start of the next part of their journey. Their destination had been a brief topic of conversation earlier, but no-one had any idea of where they were heading, and the possibilities too diverse to guess at.

The driver and his mate had reversed the truck and were securing boundary gates to the outside panels of the truck to form an enclosed channel. They lowered the tailgate and opened the internal gates to funnel the indentures into the channel. Outside the sky was a slate grey, the gloom broken by the tall lamps mounted in the tarmac surface. At the end of the channel was what looked to Cara like a bus stop, with a solid back, sides and roof. The seats, however, had five large circular holes cut into the top and Cara's heart sank as she realised this was the toilet.

The driver and his mate unharnessed each side in turn, allowing them to stretch their legs and use the cess pit before fastening them back in and doing the same with the other bench of indentures.

The chill evening air was a relief after the stuffiness of the truck. Cara had not realised how stale the air had become until she stepped outside. Even tainted as it was by the smell of the cess pit, Cara guessed it was not as bad as it could have been. She dreaded to think how it must be in the summer.
When the driver and his mate had harnessed their charges once more, they passed around mugs of water and dry cakes of bread. Cara ate and drank quickly, fearful in case she was too slow and had her food or drink taken away. Lunch seemed an eternity away.

The plastic mugs were collected back in, the gates were closed and they were on their way once more.

It was less than the full four hours when they stopped again. Cara could hear other traffic all around, and shouts of workers marshalling vehicles. Cara and the others had dozed for much of the latter part of the journey, there being little to talk about and the semi-darkness of the sodium lights numbing their minds. Now they were all alert, anxious to know what lay ahead.

Finally in position, their truck stopped. The driver and his mate lowered the tail ramp and opened the side gates. Someone new stepped into the back of the truck, a short pug-like man whose fluorescent waistcoat hung limply on either side of a waistline which told of many nights drinking beer and eating rich food. He carried a bundle of plastic strips which he threaded through each indentures' cuffs, joining their wrists in front of them. Through the first woman's cuffs he passed a narrow chain with a metal ring on the end, threading the rest of the chain through the ring. With the end secured in this way, he passed the free end through each indenture's cuffs whilst they remained harnessed. The driver went down each bench releasing the harnesses as the pug-like man fastened the free end of the chain to a security belt he wore.

Still partly asleep, Cara tried to make sense of the brightly lit scene beyond the truck ramp. Above her, the sky was black but the bustle around her was like that of a busy market. Staff in yellow fluorescent jackets moved through the throng, guiding groups of indentures and their custodians. The pug-faced man checked his watch and set off at a brisk pace towards an open-air check in desk. As they rounded the front of the truck, Cara heard one of the others in her line gasp and looked round. They were at the dock, a ferry in place, gradually being filled with indentures. Cara felt a wave of nausea wash over her and terror filled her legs like lead, the only thing keeping her moving was the insistent pressure from the chain on her wrists. She was not alone in her hesitation and twice their custodian pulled viciously on the chain, barking at them to move faster.

At the check-in desk a steward scanned the shoulders of each indenture, checking the computer screen and occasionally typing at the keyboard. Satisfied, the steward directed them to one of the three loading bays, funnel-shaped high sided ramps that led into the darkness of the ferry hold. Yanking again on the chain, their custodian led them at a brisk waddle to the next part of their journey.

Seven-seven-four took comfort for a moment, then wrapped her arms around the younger girl's waist, giving her a quick, firm squeeze.

"Back to work now," she said, "best not give 'em any excuse to 'ave a go."?

They both plucked a fresh dress from the basket and worked silently until the bell in the corridor sounded. The basket and piles of mended clothes were left in their cell while they were taken to the refectory for lunch.

Cara was relieved to see they were not given porridge for lunch as well as for breakfast and supper. Instead, she received a bowl of stew and a thick wedge of dry bread. She tucked in heartily to the familiar flavours, soaking up the last drops with her bread and wiping her bowl clean. She drank her water, still amazed by how quiet so many people in one room could be. She sensed a thrum of anticipation in the air, perhaps because three of the five tables had finished eating but had not yet been given leave to return to their cells. She saw a number of eyes nervously flicker towards the door through which she had entered the night before, and curiosity made her gaze return several times.

When all five tables had finished eating, the door opened and stout, masculine-looking woman entered with two orderlies. She bore a clipboard in the crook of her arm and stopped a measured distance from the orderlies standing at the head of each table. She appeared not to notice the palpable increase in tension as she prepared to deliver her instructions.

"Batch 1. If I call your number, go immediately to the waiting orderly." She indicated with a staccato hand to one of the two who had entered with her. "Four-three-eight;" she waited for a sign of movement, and continued when she saw a thin, bent woman in her fifties stand, eyes focused on the floor in front of her, and move towards the orderly. "Nine-one-three; Seven-two-two;" Cara noticed seven-seven-four had stiffened beside her, thinking perhaps it was to have been her number that was called. "Five-six-zero; four-nine-one;" The numbers continued until ten women stood before the orderly. All were in their forties or older, many looked haggard or work-worn. Cara looked at seven-seven-four questioningly but silenced the whispered question she had been about to ask.

The orderly led the women out through the door by which the three had entered moments before. The room seemed to deflate, until the clipboard-bearer barked "Batch 2."

The other orderly stepped forward and batch 2 was instructed to line up by her when their number was called. Again, ten women were called out, this time three from Cara's table. Cara held her breath, her face a picture of terror when the tenth name was called out, "six-two-six." The other woman with whom Cara had shared the holding cell at the indenture centre slowly rose, swallowing visibly. Like the others, she made no sound and gave no protest but went to the end of the line. She was the oldest in her batch, all of whom looked scared beyond their wits yet followed their orderly as she led them through the far door. The masculine woman nodded her thanks to the orderlies at the head of each table then she herself left.

Cara judged the atmosphere in the refectory to now be the most relaxed she had seen. Even the orderlies seemed affected by it, slightly less brusque in their directions to their tables. She queued with the others at her table to return to her cell, dying to ask seven-seven-four about what she had just witnessed.
The cell door had closed minutes before and they were alone. Re-threading her needle, Cara could wait no longer.

"What was that all about?" She asked, "Where are they going?"

"That's what this place is all about," seven-seven-four explained. "This is a distribution centre, we stay 'ere until they can use us to fill an order, and then we're off. That's where those two batches have gone today, and six-two-six, too, someone somewhere must've put in an order for ten, capable of doing whatever it is they want 'em to do, and now they're off to do it. Luck o' the draw really, yer don't know where yer'll end up, all yer's can do is 'ope fer the best."

Cara sighed. This was not really the news she had wanted to hear. Her heart went out to six-two-six, the woman in her thirties who, like her, had been chipped the day before. She dreaded to think where she might end up, what order she might fulfil. She busied herself with her mending again, but couldn't stop her mind from pulling back to the resigned looks of cowed fear on some of those women's faces as they stood in line waiting to be sent out.
Seven-seven-four watched Cara mutely for a few moments. She was confident the younger girl would cope with whatever was thrown at her, but that didn't stop her wishing she could make the world a better place for her.

"Don't ye start feelin' sorry fer yerself, ye hear me?" She said after a while. "I didn't get to my age feelin' sorry fer meself, and neither will you. So just pull yerself tall and keep that chin o' your'n up. Jus' remember, yer not doin' as they tell yer because yer weak, yer doin' it because yer strong." Cara nodded as she digested these words. Her mother had said something similar when she was alive and working two jobs.

"Thank you," she said, folding the garment she had just finished working on and adding it to the pile by her feet. The basket was more than half empty now, and she wondered how much longer they would have to complete the rest. It was impossible to judge the time of day as the building was kept at a constant temperature and the light coming in through the small windows had been gloomy all day. It dawned on her that she hadn't seen a single clock, or even a watch, since she had arrived here and she mentioned it to seven-seven-four.

"That'd be because they don't want yer to be clock-watchin' all the time, they don't want to grant yer that power, of learnin' the times of a routine and anticipatin' it. This way, yer 'ave to be content with whatever they give yer to do until they tell yer to do somat else. Even the orderlies don't wear watches, only the seniors are allowed fobs that they keep 'idden."

"Have you been to one of these distribution centres before then?"? Asked Cara.

"Good gracious no treasure, I've always bin lucky, I 'ave, I've always 'ad someone sponsor me into indenture - a private sale'll raise a better price, and a better class of buyer - well, usually, at any rate. No child, I've not been in a distribution centre before. I've known those that 'ave though, such stories I've 'eard." Cara didn't think she wanted to know the kind of stories seven-seven-four had heard about distribution centres, so she kept quiet.

Cara could nearly see the bottom of the basket by the time the bell rang and their cell door opened. An orderly collected their needles and thread from them then ushered them into the corridor. Supper took place in the same way as the previous night, though this time they shared the refectory with the other women indentures. Cara made the most of her porridge and malt drink, setting her pace in time with the others rather than finish ahead and have to wait, listening to others eating. This time, nobody hesitated over their food and they were soon led back to their cells for the night.

At first, she was shocked when seven-seven-four whisked off her rough cotton dress and stood naked before her, then proceeded to briskly rub herself over with the washcloth dipped in water from the jug which had been refilled during supper. The basket of clothes and the neat bundles of folded items had also been removed.

"Didn't know 'ow cold it were gonna get in 'ere last night," seven-seven-four said by way of explanation, before diving beneath the blanket. "Yer might wanna do the same, treasure, yer won't be getting' another dress any time soon." Cara saw the sense in this and, though her eyelids were getting heavy already, she turned her back on her companion and drew the dress over her head. She gave herself a cursory rub-down with the washcloth then clambered into bed just as the lights turned themselves out.

"One day down," she thought to herself just before she drifted into blessed sleep, "only one thousand, eight hundred and twenty six breakfasts to go."

Inside, the cell was yellow cream. It housed two rough pallet beds, each with blankets and a pillow. A toilet stood in one corner and opposite was a shelf with a large dish, a jug of water and a cloth. A heating vent was mounted in the ceiling near the recessed light, keeping the temperature within the cell on the cooler side of comfortable for Cara. She still felt the glow of the warm meal, but was grateful that the high window, glazed with frosted, reinforced glass, would not let in the winter air and weather.

Seven-seven-four went immediately to the shelf and poured a little of the water from the jug into the dish. She scooped some into her mouth with her hand and offered the dish to Cara to do the same. Cara shook her head, sitting heavily on one of the beds. All she wanted now was to go to sleep, preferably so that she could wake up in the morning and none of today would have happened.

Seven-seven-four took the cloth from beside the jug and soaked it in the water. She wrung it out and, taking Cara's chin in one hand, used the other to wipe Cara's face with the cloth, then each of Cara's hands. Cara balked at the cold water but drew comfort from the older woman's motherly touch. When seven-seven-four came to use the cloth on herself, she winced as it dragged over her grazed cheek. Cara gently took the cloth from her and dipped it back in the water. Dabbing softly, she freshened seven-seven-four's face and neck.

"Thank you, treasure," seven-seven-four took the cloth back and scrubbed her hands and forearms then replaced it back on the shelf. She poured the water into the toilet basin and flushed it away just in time before the light went out. Cara sighed and lay down on the hard bed, her head barely noticing the lumpy pillow. Curled up in the prickly blanket, she was asleep as soon as she closed her eyes.

The next morning Cara and seven-seven-four were woken by a shrill bell sounding briefly in the corridor and their cell light coming on. For those first few precious seconds, Cara lived in a world where yesterday had not happened, then her memory came crashing in, shattering the illusion. She let out a long sound, half sigh, half whimper, and tried to hide under the rough blanket. Seven-seven-four was out of bed in a flash, making use of the toilet then pouring icy water from the jug into the bowl to wash. She gave a tug on Cara's blanket.

"Come on treasure, best get a wriggle on." Cara groaned and swung her legs over the side of the pallet bed. They felt like lead, as did her head. She rubbed furiously at her eyes, trying to focus her vision. Cara gratefully took the wet washcloth which Seven-seven-four offered. The cold water revived her a little, but her head pounded and she would have given anything to be able to get back under the covers and sleep.

Seven-seven-four was not about to let that happen, though. She sat on the bed beside Cara, one leg cocked on the bed, the other trailing on the floor, and began to comb through Cara's hair with her fingers. Cara winced and tried to pull away, but seven-seven-four was insistent and did not stop until she was satisfied no more could be done with Cara's long hair. Her own, shorter and much more unruly hair did not fare so well from her finger-combing, but the cell door swung open and there was no more time to do anything about it.

Outside, an orderly instructed Cara and seven-seven-four to join the line in the corridor, closing the door behind them. One by one, each of the cell doors was opened and the occupants queued up silently. It was eerie, thought Cara, how so many people could make so little noise. The orderlies' shoes were soft on the tiled floor and the indentures were all barefoot, like herself. 

The queue was much longer than the previous night when they had arrived, and Cara became aware of just how many indentures were housed in the building when she entered the refectory once more. The room, which had seemed so vast and empty the night before was now filled with indentures seated, eating, or standing in line to receive their breakfast. This could only have been about half, for they were all women, Cara noticed.

Each table seated twenty. An orderly stood at the head of each and Cara waited for the instruction before starting to eat the porridge she had collected. Instead of a malt drink this time, there was only water. Both sat untouched until the table was full and the orderly gave them permission to begin.

This time, Cara did not feel as satisfied once her bowl was empty. Yesterday's activities and lack of food was beginning to catch up with her, she concluded. It wasn't long before all bowls and mugs were empty and the orderly sent each bench to replace the dirty items on the collection trolley. Cara was then led, together with the rest of her table, to a large rectangular room where another table's indentures were marching slowly round in a circuit taking up the furthest half of the hall. Her own line was directed to make a circuit about the remaining half of the hall, spreading out so that the first person caught up with the last, forming a complete band.

Round and round they trudged, each certain to keep the right distance from the indenture in front of them. The orderlies did not permit conversation, and Cara found that time passed slowly with just her own thoughts to digest. She found herself growing numb, noticing that chunks of time passed without her notice as she plodded on in the footsteps of the indenture before her. She was aware that seven-seven-four was behind her, but could only hear the sticky shuffle of bare feet on the polished floor. After a while, the footfalls began to synchronise and marked the exercise period as the hands of a clock.

A bell rang after what seemed like an age. The orderlies instructed the leader of each line to stand at a given point, and waited while the rest of the line caught up. No information was given as each line was marched back to its corridor and each pair of indentures returned to their cells.

On entering, Cara and seven-seven-four found a large basket of clothing and two large reels of cream thread, through each of which ran a needle. Soundlessly, seven-seven-four picked up a reel and removed the needle, threading it with a length of cotton she snapped off with her teeth. Plucking at the first item of clothing in the basket, she sought the tear and set about mending it. Cara followed suit, grateful for something to do that involved more thought than simply walking around after the person in front.

Seven-seven-four waited silently for what felt to Cara like an age, then spoke in a hushed voice.

"Hold yerself together, treasure, we're still in 'eaven 'ere. There's a long journey ahead of us, and who knows where it'll take us. 'Ead down and work, s'all yer can do now to get yerself on. Whatever they give yer, tek it wi'out complaint, or they'll find somat to give yer that'll be worth complainin' about." Cara was stunned; this had been a long speech for seven-seven-four.

"Is this really your third time?" Cara couldn't understand why anyone who had suffered indenture once would allow it to happen a second time, let alone a third. She had had no choice in the matter, but once her five years were up and she was free, she was going to stay that way.

"Aye, treasure, it is - third time lucky, maybe." She let out a hollow laugh.

"How did it happen?"

"What - this time, or before?"

"Before - this time - both?"

"The first time, I was a fool in love. I couldn't see further than what was plain in front o' me. It opened my eyes, I can tell yer." Seven-seven-four sighed, folding a dress neatly and placing it on the floor before reaching for the next. She motioned for Cara to carry on with her mending, also. "I've not had yer kind o' life," she continued, "I've had to look after meself since I was fourteen or so. When I were seventeen, I 'ooked up with this lad, was good to me, we made a good team, me an' 'im. About a year later, we was in a bit of strife, needed some cash up front. He," she spat the word out with venom, "came up with an idea. Why didn't I indenture meself fer a year, with 'im as my sponsor, that way 'e could claim the cash that was paid fer me and I would only 'ave to stay for twelve months. If I couldn't 'ack it, I 'ad only to write to 'im and 'e would take that money, which 'e would 'ave set aside as savings, and buy me loose." Indentures were at liberty to free themselves at any time, if they could pay their owners the exact sum that was paid for their purchase.

"We'd 'ave not gained nothing, but nor lost nothing, neither. If the year went by not too bad like, we'd both 'ave the money to enjoy at the end. It seemed a win-win game, 'ow could we lose?"

As it turned out, seven months into her indenture, seven-seven-four had written to her lover begging for him to use the money to buy her out of her contract. Her owner, she had detailed in her letter, would come to her bed several times a week. He was heedless of her exhaustion but would demand attention, then if she tired the next day or grew weary during her tasks, he would thrash her with a riding crop. The final straw came when, one night, getting neither satisfaction from her in bed nor from her tasks during the day, her owner had bound her wrists together and fastened her to an iron ring in one of the stables, telling her that if she acted like a lazy mare, she should be treated like one.

Twenty four hours in the stable had been enough. She had lain in the damp straw as her owner stood over her, had begged his forgiveness and rubbed her cheek against his ankle. He had relented at this and brought her indoors again, where she had worked hard to keep from having the punishment repeated. At her first opportunity she had taken a sheet of paper and an envelope and written her note to her lover, then she waited.

Days passed, which turned into weeks, which became months. There was no reply. She began to doubt herself and wonder whether she had addressed the letter correctly, but she was sure the address was as she had known it to be. Perhaps circumstances had forced him to move on, though surely he would have found a way to let her know. Without his intervention, she had been powerless, but counted down each day until the time came when she was granted her manumission and was free to leave.

On returning to the town where she had left him, she enquired of her previous home's landlady of the young man with whom she had stayed.

"Him? Oh, he's been gone from here a good twelve-month," she was told. Further investigation revealed he had moved out within a week of her indenture money clearing, staying at a number of different addresses before leaving the area altogether.

"I thought of looking for 'im," seven-seven-four continued, "but I never saw the point. From the sound of it, 'e 'ad spent much of what 'e 'ad earned from my sale, and by that time I realised I had bigger troubles looming." She gestured a pronounced arc from under her breasts to her thighs.

"You were pregnant?" Cara asked incredulously.

"Oh, aye, though the amount of times Lady Luck had been called to the table to cast the dice, it's hardly surprising." Seven-seven-four reached for another garment, already a number ahead of Cara. "I worked meself to the bone to keep us both, but there were still times when 'e was too 'ungry to cry. By the time 'e were five, it were impossible. I was sharing an 'ouse with three others and their bairns, and the 'ouse mistress. She were a strict 'un, but she were fair. I asked 'er, what would it take for 'er to bring up me son as 'er own, moneywise. Once she realised I was askin' in earnest, she sat down and worked out 'ow much she would need. When she told me, I nearly died! I said to 'er, I'd 'ave to indenture meself fer life to raise that kind o' figure. She talked me through it all, showed me 'ow a ten year indenture would be more than enough, and that at the end my son'd only be fifteen, young enough that I could still be 'is mother." Seven-seven-four's voice began to break.

"It was the 'ardest thing I ever done," she said, "'aving that woman sponsor me back into indenture. I was terrified I'd end up in the same boat all over again, but this time there was no-one to bail me out if things got too bad. But in the end it weren't too bad, fer she knew someone who wanted a woman, and she arranged that it be me. That way, she got 'er price, and I got a good 'ome - and it were a good 'ome, the best I've 'ad." She paused again, this time to let out a deep sigh.

"It were a woman, living alone, she 'ad money and a good 'ouse, and just wanted someone who would keep the place fer 'er. I did that alright, it shone like a new pin it did. I cooked an' I cleaned til there were nothing left to do. She always let me eat whatever was left over from the cooking, so I ate like a queen, same as 'er. I 'ad me own room, an' me own bathroom, too." Seven-seven-four smiled proudly. "An' other than a nice 'ouse, she asked fer nothin' in return."

"Ten years, I were with 'er, I were with 'er when the law said that all indentures 'ad to be chipped. She weren't 'appy about that, but it 'ad to be done, so she took me and stayed with me the 'ole time." Cara added another neatly folded garment to her finished pile and reached for another.

"Did you get to see your son after that?" She asked.

"I did, and I didn't. I went back to the 'ouse mistress, who introduced me to me son as 'er guest. It was obvious they were both doing very well without me, the money was lasting them well so for the sake of my son, I stayed as long as was polite then left. There's no sense in tryin' to fix what ain't broke." Seven-seven-four set her features into a look of grim determination, working at the dress in her hands. Unused to speaking at such length, her mouth felt dry and the emotions she had stirred gave her a strange sensation, like a freshly dug grave.

Cara saw the discomfort and put her own garment down to cross the room and give seven-seven-four a hug. Her own tale of woe was nothing compared to this poor woman's lifetime of suffering for the sake of those she cared about. She didn't pry about how seven-seven-four had ended up back as an unsponsored indenture, but gave her what little comfort she could.

Inside, the cell was yellow cream. It housed two rough pallet beds, each with blankets and a pillow. A toilet stood in one corner and opposite was a shelf with a large dish, a jug of water and a cloth. A heating vent was mounted in the ceiling near the recessed light, keeping the temperature within the cell on the cooler side of comfortable for Cara. She still felt the glow of the warm meal, but was grateful that the high window, glazed with frosted, reinforced glass, would not let in the winter air and weather.

Seven-seven-four went immediately to the shelf and poured a little of the water from the jug into the dish. She scooped some into her mouth with her hand and offered the dish to Cara to do the same. Cara shook her head, sitting heavily on one of the beds. All she wanted now was to go to sleep, preferably so that she could wake up in the morning and none of today would have happened.

Seven-seven-four took the cloth from beside the jug and soaked it in the water. She wrung it out and, taking Cara's chin in one hand, used the other to wipe Cara's face with the cloth, then each of Cara's hands. Cara balked at the cold water but drew comfort from the older woman's motherly touch. When seven-seven-four came to use the cloth on herself, she winced as it dragged over her grazed cheek. Cara gently took the cloth from her and dipped it back in the water. Dabbing softly, she freshened seven-seven-four's face and neck.

"Thank you, treasure," seven-seven-four took the cloth back and scrubbed her hands and forearms then replaced it back on the shelf. She poured the water into the toilet basin and flushed it away just in time before the light went out. Cara sighed and lay down on the hard bed, her head barely noticing the lumpy pillow. Curled up in the prickly blanket, she was asleep as soon as she closed her eyes.

The next morning Cara and seven-seven-four were woken by a shrill bell sounding briefly in the corridor and their cell light coming on. For those first few precious seconds, Cara lived in a world where yesterday had not happened, then her memory came crashing in, shattering the illusion. She let out a long sound, half sigh, half whimper, and tried to hide under the rough blanket. Seven-seven-four was out of bed in a flash, making use of the toilet then pouring icy water from the jug into the bowl to wash. She gave a tug on Cara's blanket.

"Come on treasure, best get a wriggle on." Cara groaned and swung her legs over the side of the pallet bed. They felt like lead, as did her head. She rubbed furiously at her eyes, trying to focus her vision. Cara gratefully took the wet washcloth which Seven-seven-four offered. The cold water revived her a little, but her head pounded and she would have given anything to be able to get back under the covers and sleep.

Seven-seven-four was not about to let that happen, though. She sat on the bed beside Cara, one leg cocked on the bed, the other trailing on the floor, and began to comb through Cara's hair with her fingers. Cara winced and tried to pull away, but seven-seven-four was insistent and did not stop until she was satisfied no more could be done with Cara's long hair. Her own, shorter and much more unruly hair did not fare so well from her finger-combing, but the cell door swung open and there was no more time to do anything about it.

Outside, an orderly instructed Cara and seven-seven-four to join the line in the corridor, closing the door behind them. One by one, each of the cell doors was opened and the occupants queued up silently. It was eerie, thought Cara, how so many people could make so little noise. The orderlies' shoes were soft on the tiled floor and the indentures were all barefoot, like herself. 

The queue was much longer than the previous night when they had arrived, and Cara became aware of just how many indentures were housed in the building when she entered the refectory once more. The room, which had seemed so vast and empty the night before was now filled with indentures seated, eating, or standing in line to receive their breakfast. This could only have been about half, for they were all women, Cara noticed.

Each table seated twenty. An orderly stood at the head of each and Cara waited for the instruction before starting to eat the porridge she had collected. Instead of a malt drink this time, there was only water. Both sat untouched until the table was full and the orderly gave them permission to begin.

This time, Cara did not feel as satisfied once her bowl was empty. Yesterday's activities and lack of food was beginning to catch up with her, she concluded. It wasn't long before all bowls and mugs were empty and the orderly sent each bench to replace the dirty items on the collection trolley. Cara was then led, together with the rest of her table, to a large rectangular room where another table's indentures were marching slowly round in a circuit taking up the furthest half of the hall. Her own line was directed to make a circuit about the remaining half of the hall, spreading out so that the first person caught up with the last, forming a complete band.

Round and round they trudged, each certain to keep the right distance from the indenture in front of them. The orderlies did not permit conversation, and Cara found that time passed slowly with just her own thoughts to digest. She found herself growing numb, noticing that chunks of time passed without her notice as she plodded on in the footsteps of the indenture before her. She was aware that seven-seven-four was behind her, but could only hear the sticky shuffle of bare feet on the polished floor. After a while, the footfalls began to synchronise and marked the exercise period as the hands of a clock.

A bell rang after what seemed like an age. The orderlies instructed the leader of each line to stand at a given point, and waited while the rest of the line caught up. No information was given as each line was marched back to its corridor and each pair of indentures returned to their cells.

On entering, Cara and seven-seven-four found a large basket of clothing and two large reels of cream thread, through each of which ran a needle. Soundlessly, seven-seven-four picked up a reel and removed the needle, threading it with a length of cotton she snapped off with her teeth. Plucking at the first item of clothing in the basket, she sought the tear and set about mending it. Cara followed suit, grateful for something to do that involved more thought than simply walking around after the person in front.

Seven-seven-four waited silently for what felt to Cara like an age, then spoke in a hushed voice.

"Hold yerself together, treasure, we're still in 'eaven 'ere. There's a long journey ahead of us, and who knows where it'll take us. 'Ead down and work, s'all yer can do now to get yerself on. Whatever they give yer, tek it wi'out complaint, or they'll find somat to give yer that'll be worth complainin' about." Cara was stunned; this had been a long speech for seven-seven-four.

"Is this really your third time?" Cara couldn't understand why anyone who had suffered indenture once would allow it to happen a second time, let alone a third. She had had no choice in the matter, but once her five years were up and she was free, she was going to stay that way.

"Aye, treasure, it is - third time lucky, maybe." She let out a hollow laugh.

"How did it happen?"

"What - this time, or before?"

"Before - this time - both?"

"The first time, I was a fool in love. I couldn't see further than what was plain in front o' me. It opened my eyes, I can tell yer." Seven-seven-four sighed, folding a dress neatly and placing it on the floor before reaching for the next. She motioned for Cara to carry on with her mending, also. "I've not had yer kind o' life," she continued, "I've had to look after meself since I was fourteen or so. When I were seventeen, I 'ooked up with this lad, was good to me, we made a good team, me an' 'im. About a year later, we was in a bit of strife, needed some cash up front. He," she spat the word out with venom, "came up with an idea. Why didn't I indenture meself fer a year, with 'im as my sponsor, that way 'e could claim the cash that was paid fer me and I would only 'ave to stay for twelve months. If I couldn't 'ack it, I 'ad only to write to 'im and 'e would take that money, which 'e would 'ave set aside as savings, and buy me loose." Indentures were at liberty to free themselves at any time, if they could pay their owners the exact sum that was paid for their purchase.

"We'd 'ave not gained nothing, but nor lost nothing, neither. If the year went by not too bad like, we'd both 'ave the money to enjoy at the end. It seemed a win-win game, 'ow could we lose?"

As it turned out, seven months into her indenture, seven-seven-four had written to her lover begging for him to use the money to buy her out of her contract. Her owner, she had detailed in her letter, would come to her bed several times a week. He was heedless of her exhaustion but would demand attention, then if she tired the next day or grew weary during her tasks, he would thrash her with a riding crop. The final straw came when, one night, getting neither satisfaction from her in bed nor from her tasks during the day, her owner had bound her wrists together and fastened her to an iron ring in one of the stables, telling her that if she acted like a lazy mare, she should be treated like one.

Twenty four hours in the stable had been enough. She had lain in the damp straw as her owner stood over her, had begged his forgiveness and rubbed her cheek against his ankle. He had relented at this and brought her indoors again, where she had worked hard to keep from having the punishment repeated. At her first opportunity she had taken a sheet of paper and an envelope and written her note to her lover, then she waited.

Days passed, which turned into weeks, which became months. There was no reply. She began to doubt herself and wonder whether she had addressed the letter correctly, but she was sure the address was as she had known it to be. Perhaps circumstances had forced him to move on, though surely he would have found a way to let her know. Without his intervention, she had been powerless, but counted down each day until the time came when she was granted her manumission and was free to leave.

On returning to the town where she had left him, she enquired of her previous home's landlady of the young man with whom she had stayed.

"Him? Oh, he's been gone from here a good twelve-month," she was told. Further investigation revealed he had moved out within a week of her indenture money clearing, staying at a number of different addresses before leaving the area altogether.

"I thought of looking for 'im," seven-seven-four continued, "but I never saw the point. From the sound of it, 'e 'ad spent much of what 'e 'ad earned from my sale, and by that time I realised I had bigger troubles looming." She gestured a pronounced arc from under her breasts to her thighs.

"You were pregnant?" Cara asked incredulously.

"Oh, aye, though the amount of times Lady Luck had been called to the table to cast the dice, it's hardly surprising." Seven-seven-four reached for another garment, already a number ahead of Cara. "I worked meself to the bone to keep us both, but there were still times when 'e was too 'ungry to cry. By the time 'e were five, it were impossible. I was sharing an 'ouse with three others and their bairns, and the 'ouse mistress. She were a strict 'un, but she were fair. I asked 'er, what would it take for 'er to bring up me son as 'er own, moneywise. Once she realised I was askin' in earnest, she sat down and worked out 'ow much she would need. When she told me, I nearly died! I said to 'er, I'd 'ave to indenture meself fer life to raise that kind o' figure. She talked me through it all, showed me 'ow a ten year indenture would be more than enough, and that at the end my son'd only be fifteen, young enough that I could still be 'is mother." Seven-seven-four's voice began to break.

"It was the 'ardest thing I ever done," she said, "'aving that woman sponsor me back into indenture. I was terrified I'd end up in the same boat all over again, but this time there was no-one to bail me out if things got too bad. But in the end it weren't too bad, fer she knew someone who wanted a woman, and she arranged that it be me. That way, she got 'er price, and I got a good 'ome - and it were a good 'ome, the best I've 'ad." She paused again, this time to let out a deep sigh.

"It were a woman, living alone, she 'ad money and a good 'ouse, and just wanted someone who would keep the place fer 'er. I did that alright, it shone like a new pin it did. I cooked an' I cleaned til there were nothing left to do. She always let me eat whatever was left over from the cooking, so I ate like a queen, same as 'er. I 'ad me own room, an' me own bathroom, too." Seven-seven-four smiled proudly. "An' other than a nice 'ouse, she asked fer nothin' in return."

"Ten years, I were with 'er, I were with 'er when the law said that all indentures 'ad to be chipped. She weren't 'appy about that, but it 'ad to be done, so she took me and stayed with me the 'ole time." Cara added another neatly folded garment to her finished pile and reached for another.

"Did you get to see your son after that?" She asked.

"I did, and I didn't. I went back to the 'ouse mistress, who introduced me to me son as 'er guest. It was obvious they were both doing very well without me, the money was lasting them well so for the sake of my son, I stayed as long as was polite then left. There's no sense in tryin' to fix what ain't broke." Seven-seven-four set her features into a look of grim determination, working at the dress in her hands. Unused to speaking at such length, her mouth felt dry and the emotions she had stirred gave her a strange sensation, like a freshly dug grave.

Cara saw the discomfort and put her own garment down to cross the room and give seven-seven-four a hug. Her own tale of woe was nothing compared to this poor woman's lifetime of suffering for the sake of those she cared about. She didn't pry about how seven-seven-four had ended up back as an unsponsored indenture, but gave her what little comfort she could.

The sun had sunk beyond the western cityscape, leaving the grey gloom of dusk. The alternating brightness and dark of the indenture centre underneath the Magistrates' Court had disorientated Cara, so that she was surprised to find it wasn't as late as she had expected.

If Cara had been expecting the bus or something similar, she was disappointed. The transport that awaited the four women was akin to a cattle truck, complete with air vents along each side. The tail ramp was down and the two side-hinging gates open, forming a passage into the lower of two levels on which indentures were carried - the men on the upper level, the women on the lower. Each level had a central division running its height, forming a left and a right bay. Narrow benches ran the length of each exterior wall and either side of the central partition. Five-point harnesses were fixed at regular intervals above the benches. Many of these were occupied on both levels, with the upper being almost full to capacity. Both of the lower bays were about two thirds full, working from front to back.

Another official waited at the tail ramp and closed one of the side gates after the four women had been led inside. Sodium light strips cast a yellow glow, enabling the official to see to release each of the four women one by one, seat her on the bench and fasten the five-point harness, securing her in place until she was released at the end of her journey.

Cara's heart sank as she was seated and the webbing straps slotted into their central catch, all slack being tugged out. Her arms were pinned between her body and the metal skin of the truck. The weather was bitter, the biting April squall falling on her from the vent above her head. She began to shiver uncontrollably, though whether this was from the cold, or shock, she did not know.

Once all four women were restrained in the trick, the two officials closed both side gates and the tail ramp. Within moments Cara felt the judder of the engine starting up. The sodium strip lights went out, plunging the rear of the truck into semi light. To combat the winter temperatures hot air blowers came on and within minutes the air became stuffy and humid.

In the dark oppressive atmosphere, Cara found herself soothed by the rhythmic motion of the truck. She was grateful now that her harness was of such a snug fit, feeling secure enough to close her eyes and let her head fall forward, dozing lightly.

When the truck stopped, Cara awoke with a start, her heart pounding with adrenaline. It took her a moment to realise where she was, then the sodium lights came back on and the rear of the truck was opened. From her vantage point Cara could see the truck was in an enclosed yard, the high fences topped with razor wire. Flood lights created the impression of daylight within the yard, though the sky was black. An imposing brick building stood within the boundary fence and four people, two men and two women, waited for their cargo to be unloaded.

The men were unloaded first, the tail ramp lifting mechanically to form a flat platform that moved between the two levels. Fifteen of the men were clipped together on two long chains and handed over to the two waiting males. One official went through each of the lower bays checking collar tags, drawing Cara's attention away from the men in the yard. About half from each bay, including Cara, were released from their harness and put onto a chain as before. Of the three women who had shared the holding cell with Cara, she noticed only two were put onto the chain. The third, the nineteen year old whose two children had been taken away, remained on the bench in her harness. Cara held her desolate gaze until the chain pulled tight, forcing her to move on.

A frost had fallen on the ground, numbing Cara's feet as she stood in line. She noticed the men had already left the yard and hoped she wouldn't be far behind them. The two women receiving them removed each collar tag in turn and marked them off on a sheet of paper, making sure they had no more and no fewer than were intended. One signed some paperwork for the transport official and the truck was secured, ready to continue its journey. Satisfied with their charges, the two women led the shivering indentures inside.

Cara hadn't noticed her growing hunger until they were led to a refectory filled with long tables and benches. As each woman was released from the chain, the central link joining her cuffs behind her back was cut and she was directed to take a seat at the nearest table.

When all eighteen had been seated, one of the charge hands fetched a trolley bearing a large cooking pot, a number of steaming catering jugs and a stack of bowls, spoons and mugs.

"Four-nine-one, collect your supper and a drink," called the other charge hand, ticking off her clipboard again. Four-nine-one rose and walked to the trolley, collecting a bowl and spoon, into which was ladled a generous quantity of thin porridge. The charge hand poured a steamy malt drink into mugs and four-nine-one took one then returned to her seat. Other names were called out, and whenever someone hesitated to collect their supper, the women would check the number written on their neighbours' backs.

Cara's number was called out. She collected a bowl and spoon from the trolley, into which was poured the thin porridge. She picked up a steaming mug and inhaled the rich scent on her way back to her bench. She was about to start eating immediately when seven-seven-four, seated next to her, put a cautionary hand on her wrist. Cara looked up and saw that none of the others had yet begun to eat, either.

"You may begin." The instruction came only when all eighteen had a bowl and mug before them. Immediately, spoons clattered against bowls as the women devoured the porridge and drank their malt drink. One woman ate less eagerly than the others, taking small slow bites. Hers was the only bowl with food left in it once all spoons had been put down.

"Finish your supper," instructed the charge hand.

"Please, Miss, I'm not hungry," the girl said as she pushed the bowl away.

"If she don't want it, I'll have it," the girl's neighbour reached for the bowl but immediately snatched her hand back as a two foot length of bamboo cane cracked down on her wrist. Cara froze, wondering if seven-seven-four had stayed her own wrist, knowing something of this routine.

"Eat." The charge hand stood behind the girl as she struggled to continue eating. The other women sat silently, some watching the girl intensely while others forced their attention elsewhere. The rich malt drink and stomach heavy with food were beginning to work on Cara, making her feel drowsy. She could see others' eyes were also getting heavy and Cara wondered what time it was. In April, a black sky indicated any time after eight o' clock and Cara had no idea how long she may have dozed for in the truck.

Eventually, the girl put her spoon down in the empty bowl and drained the last drops from her mug. The charge hand moved back to the trolley as the other called each woman out in turn to replace her empty much and dish on the trolley. As each did so, she was directed to stand in line by a door at the far end of the canteen. Cara took her place next to seven-seven-four and, when all were stood, the two charge hands escorted them through the building to a corridor lined on both sides with small cells, each with a letter painted on the door.

At the first cell, the charge hand at the front called off the first two indentured women in the line and ushered them into the cell. She closed the magnet-locked door once both were inside. At each door, two women were admitted into the cell. Cara and seven-seven-four, towards the end of the line, were ushered into cell G, the door sealing behind them. 

The holding cell was dark, the walls painted a slate grey with a high narrow vent letting in slivers of light. Inside were three women dressed the same as Cara, seated on the two narrow fold-down benches running the length of two of the walls. Cara was pushed in and the heavy door slammed behind her, the electromagnetic lock catching immediately. She stared at the door for a moment in dismay, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark, then hovered nervously, leaning with her back to the wall. She didn't dare look at the other women, not even when one spoke to her.

 
"You might as well sit down love, you've a fair wait ahead." Cara digested this for a moment then hesitantly sank her trembling body onto the edge of the emptiest bench. She had a desperate urge to go to the bathroom, but she didn't know whether it would be to urinate or be sick. The woman who had spoken got up and crouched in front of Cara. "Hey, c'mon, perk up - you've a long way to go yet, so don't you be falling at the first 'urdle, no?" Like Cara, her hands were bound behind her back. Though her voice was strong and confident, Cara was not fooled into thinking this woman had accepted her own fate meekly. She was in her early forties, brown hair bouncing, untameable, about her face. Her eyes twinkled, and a ready smile curled her lips upwards, but the livid purple bruise and grazed cheekbone told its own story.

Sitting her own bulk next to Cara, she leaned over conspiratorially.

"It's my third time here," she said, "so it can't be that bad, can it?" Cara studied the bruise and wondered silently that perhaps it was, depending on your definition of bad. "Oh, this, you're wondering about yeah love?" She had guessed Cara would be studying the bruise. It had stung something awful when Frankland had backhanded her, sending her flying to the floor, but it had been worth it to see her spit stringing down his face. "That's just our Frankland out there, showing me 'ow pleased 'e is to see me back." She flashed white teeth at Cara. "C'mon love, tell your Aunty Seven-seven-four all about yerself." When Cara did not answer but instead put her head down, the woman began to introduce the other two in the cell.

"This one 'ere," she began, "this is two-five-nine - we don't talk about past names, see - she's only a young 'un, like yerself, but it's hard for 'er, 'cause they took 'er two babes away." Cara saw a painfully thin young girl of about nineteen, anxiously chewing her lip. "That'n there's six-two-six," Older than Cara, possibly approaching her thirties, her jaw was grimly set and her eyes scrutinised everything they landed on. "She only got chipped today, bit of a shocker huh love?" This last she spoke in six-two-six's direction, eliciting a quietly growled "piss off", though both women nodded and smiled in Cara's direction, giving small greetings. "C'mon then, now you," seven-seven-four urged. Cara took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to steady her heart and nerves.

"I'm six-three-one... I think," she began. Seven-seven-four leaned back to have a look at Cara's number printed on the back of her dress.

"Yup, that's you," she grinned, encouraging Cara to continue.

"I'm twenty-two, I've been chipped because my dad died and a judge signed a piece of paper and... and..." Unable to continue, Cara fought hard to control the tears that threatened to fall. Swallowing hard against the lump in her throat, Cara tried to focus on the physical present rather than the past. "I really need to go to the bathroom." She said through gritted teeth.

"Now that we can 'elp you with, see that bucket over there, in the corner?" Seven-seven-four nodded in the direction she meant. Cara peered into the gloom and saw a large metal bucket chained to a ring set in the wall. "All yours, we won't even look, 'ow's that?"
 

 
Cara felt the urge to vomit again, but controlled it. She did not particularly want to be the centre of attention but she did not think she could last two minutes, let alone two hours without making use of the bucket. Awkwardly, she moved to the corner. The bucket was chained so close to the wall she would not be able to squat with her back to the others as she had hoped.

Taking a deep breath, then wishing she hadn't as her brain digested the odours coming from the bucket, she turned to face into the room and squatted, her hands seeking purchase on the wall behind her for stability. She emptied her bladder noisily for what seemed like forever. She nearly laughed out loud when she caught herself looking for toilet paper - even if there had been any, she would not have been able to use it with her hands bound behind her back as they were.

Back on the bench, Cara tried to make out what was written on the tag bound to her plastic collar. Without artificial light, she could only just make out dark shapes where she knew the words to be.

The two hours passed slowly for Cara. She did not know what to say to these three very different women who shared her situation, and was grateful for the time to organise her thoughts. The other women apparently shared this, for even seven-seven-four made only occasional attempts at conversation.
Only once more were they disturbed as they waited for their transport to arrive: a loud commotion erupted briefly in the corridor outside their cell. Cara looked up in alarm but seven-seven-four gave her a wink and a wry smile.

"Don't you worry none love, that's just one of the poor sods on 'is way to the men's room."

"The men's room?"

"They 'old the men separate from us women, to protect us, y'see." Here, seven-seven-four lowered her voice, as if afraid of being overheard by those outside. "Though why they bother is their own business - they don't protect us much from owt else." Feeling even more uneasy than before this explanation had been given, Cara continued to stare at the cell door, occasionally blinking rapidly in an effort to keep her tears from spilling over.
When the door finally opened, it was almost a relief just to have something happen. The air in the cell had become oppressive and the bucket, which had been used several times throughout the day, filled the room with its pungent odour.

The brilliant white of the corridor beyond momentarily blinded each of the women as they were called out in turn. Mrs Underwood stood there with an official in grey trousers and pullover and a white shirt. As each woman came out, Mrs Underwood stopped her and read off the woman's destination from the tag at her neck. The official would make a mark on his clipboard then, once all four were lined up in the corridor, blinking, he snapped the end of a long chain to the last girl's centre cuff loop and passed the chain between her knees. Cara's wrists were next and again the chain was passed between her knees, then onto the woman in front of her. Seven-seven-four was at the front and she was chained in the same way, so that all four were threaded onto the chain like living trinkets, the end of which the official snapped to the stout belt about his waist.

The official and Mrs Underwood concluded their business and they were off, Mrs Underwood holding the external door for them and the four women gingerly trying to keep up with the official's brisk pace without chafing their thighs on the coarse chain. When Cara fell slightly behind, the chain pulled against the woman in front's wrists, causing Cara to hurry as her short dress rode up and the chain began to bite higher.

At the computer, Mrs Underwood called out instructions and Frankland obtained them for her, leading Cara to the weighing scales, the wall measure to take her height, then to stand in the middle of the floor by the bench, where he used a tape to measure around Cara's crown, neck, upper arms, wrists, bust, rib cage, waist, thighs: individual and together, ankles, foot length, together with a number of vertical measurements between reference points called out by Mrs Underwood. Each of these was meticulously entered onto the computer. 

"Have you any allergies?" Mrs Underwood asked. 

"No," replied Cara, "not that I am aware of." 

"No, Ma'am," Mrs Underwood stressed, "and I don't want to have to remind you again. Understood?" 

"Yes... Ma'am." 

"Better. Any medical conditions or history that should be noted? Do you need to take any regular medication?" 

"No, Ma'am."
 

"What are your periods like?" 

"My periods? Umm Ma'am?" Mrs Underwood appeared not to notice the slip, but Cara just didn't feel comfortable with the form of address. 

"Are they regular? Heavy? Unusually painful? Do they occur every month?" 

"Normal, I think, they're regular and they hurt, but whose don't?" Frankland cocked his head and looked down his long thin nose at Cara. Just in time, she added "...Ma'am." 

"Any pregnancies?" The questions continued, seemingly endless and ever more intimate. 

"No Ma'am." 

"How many sexual partners?" 

"One, Ma'am," the derisory sniff told Cara she was not altogether believed, though it was indeed the truth. 

"Do you use alcohol, tobacco or any other type of drug?" 

"I drink, I don't smoke, I've never done any kind of drug Ma'am." 

"How much per week do you usually drink?" Cara shrugged. 

"A bottle of wine, two at the most. Ma'am." Her father had brewed the best beer and wine on the street, it had helped towards paying the bills and putting food on the table after her mother's death when she was eight. It had also helped to ease her father's passage into life without his gentle, encouraging wife. 

"Birthmarks, tattoos, piercings or other identifying features?" 

"My ears are pierced Ma'am, but I don't have any of the other things you mentioned." Frankland confirmed this after a quick investigation of Cara's body. 

"Any previous indenture?" 

"No, Ma'am." 

"Any relatives who are or have been indentured?" Cara swallowed hard. 

"Yes, Ma'am." She was not prepared to volunteer more than she had to about this. 

"Name, relationship to you, are they still indentured?" 

"Betty James, my mother. She died in 1989 Ma'am." 

"How long had she been indentured? Was she still indentured at her death?" 

"Twenty five years at her death Ma'am." Cara's voice fell to little more than a whisper. "Dad bought her when she was eighteen. Four years later he married her, but she was never manumitted." Her mother had borne the burden silently, as was her way. Cara had not even known her mother was indentured to her father until she was seven. Her mother had then confessed that she still carried the hope, fourteen years on, that he would grant her manumission and they could continue in their marriage with them both benefiting from her being a free wife, though she had every confidence that Cara's father had his reasons and acted in all their best interests. Her mother had died of less than a year later with this hope still high in her heart. That night her father had wept inconsolably, begging his dead wife's forgiveness but he had been scared she would leave her, something which had happened anyway. 

"Do you know her number?" Mrs Underwood's relentless questioning snapped Cara out of her reverie. 

"She didn't have a chip, it was tattooed on her ankle. 24195 Ma'am." For years she had read that number, tracing it with her finger while her mother sat sewing or working at her father's books. 

All these details were laboriously entered into the computerised database until at last the Indenture Manager was satisfied that no more could be added to the entry. She left the computer to ponder whilst she took a plain, shapeless cotton dress down from a shelf. Using a black marker pen she wrote Cara's identification number on the back and gave it to Cara to put on. Grateful at last to be able to make herself decent again, she wriggled into it with haste. 

Mrs Underwood took the box containing Cara's clothes and wrote Cara's new identification number on the side and lid then put it on a shelf next to a row of identical boxes. 

"You will get this back after your five years is up," Mrs Underwood said, "until then it will be safe in storage." Cara nearly wept. If she had had any idea that this could have happened today, she would have left the house with a lot more than she did. She thought of the photographs she could have preserved, small trinkets of her mother's that she had kept safe in a little box under her bed. She couldn't bring herself to think of someone rummaging through all of her belongings, preparing to sell the contents of her world and a lifetime of memories. 

"What about me now... Ma'am?" Cara asked, suddenly fearful that she had no idea what happened to people newly indentured. 

"In a moment the computer will finish searching its database for the most suitable distribution centre for you. Then, you will go there." As if on cue, the computer gave a small chime. "Right, let's see where you're going," the Indenture Manager turned back with a sniff to the computer screen to call up the details. "Finish off with her, Frankland." 

"Pleasure, Ma'am." This to Frankland was the best part, if he had to pin down a favourite. If they were going to struggle like a wildcat or have screaming hysterics, now would be the time. Most, like Cara, coped admirably with the shower, the chipping and the interview. This was the bit where he proved to them they were all just followers after all. 

Opening a drawer, Frankland took out several plastic strips, some about an inch wide, others much narrower. Tiny serrated ridges were carved into one side, which caught on a tooth within the eye at the other end, when threaded through. They were single use and, once on, could only be removed by cutting. Cara was still seated on the bench, though made to stand when Frankland grasped one of her wrists firmly enough to make her yelp. Using her wrist to twist her around, Frankland pushed Cara back onto the bench, face down, her waist bent so her knees almost rested on the floor. Still holding Cara's arm, he twisted it further, keeping it straight and pulling it up until Cara was unable to move for the pain in her shoulder. She did not feel the plastic strap around her wrist, but she heard the zipping noise it made as the length flew through the eye, tightening with just a finger's width of slack, and the snip of the loose end being clipped flush so that she could not injure herself by pulling it any tighter. 

Before releasing his hold on that wrist, Frankland grasped Cara's other and repeated the cuffing process. Cara fought without conviction, her legs seeking Frankland's until he put his own legs between hers and spread them, pinning her even more securely. With both wrists cuffed, Frankland held them both firmly in one of his hands, taking one of the narrower strips and threading it through both cuffs to link them together behind her back. He did not tighten this fully, but left Cara with several inches of play. The end of this strip he did not trim flush, but allowed a stub to remain, should it need to be tightened at some point. 

Grabbing Cara by the hair, he pulled her head back. Ashamed of the tears which now flowed freely, Cara tried to pull away but Frankland shook her head vigorously until she ceased to struggle and grew slack in his grip. A wide strip went around her neck, Frankland tightening it until he could get four fingers between the plastic and her skin, then trimmed it flush. 

Releasing Cara's hair, he grasped her thighs and lifted her legs, pushing her forward across the bench so that she hung down the other side from the waist and her legs rested on the bench. In this position, Cara felt sure Frankland would not hesitate to drop her if she struggled too much. She tested her wrist bonds and found them harsh and unyielding. In turn, Frankland pinned first one of Cara's ankles, then the other, between his own legs whilst he worked at putting a cuff on the other. These he did not strap together, but they could serve as convenient anchor points at some future time. 

Pulling her back on the bench, Frankland returned Cara to a sitting position on the edge. She had been too quiet for his liking, barely a grunt. He preferred it when they fought harder, because he would prove to them that they were no match for him, and that they would eventually succumb, one way or another.  

Mrs Underwood tore off a small print-out and sealed it inside a plastic pouch. Through the top of the pouch was another, thin, plastic strip. She gave the item to Frankland, who reached for Cara's collar, but she pulled away. He smacked her hard on the side of her head, making Cara's vision spin, then pulled her upright by her collar. He used the thin strip to attach the laminated pouch to Cara's collar - she was now fully labelled and ready to be sent to the distribution centre. 

"You'll never make it to trainer, you know, if you keep damaging the goods like that," Mrs Underwood sniffed. She was aware of Frankland's ambitions and whilst she condoned how he treated many who came through her doors, she also felt a little moderation wouldn't go astray, particularly in cases like this. "Transport's arriving in two hours, so take her to the holding cell. I'm guessing the next one will already be waiting next door, so don't be long." 

"Yes, Ma'am," Frankland grinned, hauling Cara to her feet. "Come along, six-three-one, let's go make you comfortable." He clenched the loop linking her wrists behind her back and pushed her along in front of him.

Satisfied that all was in order, Mrs Underwood dropped them on the desk and beckoned for Cara to approach. Hesitantly, Cara did so, balling her hands nervously, deep into the pockets of her best trousers. 

"Cara James?" the Indenture Manager somehow managed to speak without un-pursing her lips, punctuating the question with an even more exaggerated pout and a tweak of her eyebrows. Mutely Cara nodded. "Daughter of Andrew Philip James, now deceased?"

Clearing her throat, Cara managed to stutter her confirmation, "Yes, Mrs Underwood," Resting her elbows squarely on the desk, the Indenture Manager fixed Cara with an icy stare. 

"That's Ma'am to you." Without giving Cara time to protest, she continued "I have here an Order signed by the Judge for your legal indenture. Follow me." Rising with the papers, she waved a chunky electronic fob towards a reader panel and led Cara into the room beyond. The heavy door closed firmly behind Cara. 

Like the reception, this room was intensely bright. The faint antiseptic smell deepened the impression of clinical sterility. It took Cara a moment to realise there was a man seated in the corner, dressed in a similar way to the matron-like woman but with brown trim to his uniform. He did not look up from his newspaper as Cara entered, nor even when Mrs Underwood instructed her to empty her pockets into a small pouch she took from a cardboard box. Confused, still shocked by the turn of events, Cara fumbled to drop her house keys, less than a pound of loose change and a return bus ticket into the pouch. Impatiently Mrs Underwood shook it, demanding more. From a coat pocket Cara added a used tissue to the collection, and half a tube of mints, the foil twisted securely. She had brought nothing else with her that morning. Satisfied, Mrs Underwood dropped the pouch into the cardboard box. 

"Fold your clothes neatly and put them in the box. Frankland, shower." This last bit finally got the man reading the newspaper to put it down and slowly gain his feet. His long gangly body unfurled as he set to his task dispassionately. 

In disbelief Cara stared at Mrs Underwood, her lips working soundless words. Finally she found her voice. 

"I'm not taking them off, they're my bests, I'm not." 

"Well you're not having a shower with them on, that's a fact." Mrs Underwood's folded arms belied how much she was used to this argument. 

"I don't need a shower, I washed this morning." Mrs Underwood stood watching, waiting for the scene to play itself out. "I'm not taking anything off in front of him." Cara's voice grew shrill as she pointed to Frankland, who was testing the temperature of the running water. 

"You're not that special that you have anything he hasn't seen before, so let's stop this silly game, shall we?" Mrs Underwood reached out as if to start unbuttoning Cara's blouse. Snatching herself away from Mrs Underwood's grasp, Cara started to pick at the buttons herself. 

"I can do it." Her voice was small, her eyes focussed only on each button in turn as she turned her back to them both. 

With her blouse hanging open, Cara stepped out of her court shoes and let her trousers fall to the ground. She hooked a thumb into each of her knee-high stockings and pulled them off then scooped up her trousers. With great care, she folded them neatly and placed them on top of the pouch in the box. An impatient nod from Mrs Underwood encouraged Cara to slide off her blouse and put that in the box too, though she was careful to tuck the slightly frayed sleeve underneath, suddenly acutely aware of how lacking her best clothes might appear. 

"Are you going to finish any time today, or do I have to take my shears to you?" Mrs Underwood's threat sent Cara's hands fumbling for her bra hooks. Soon her underwear and shoes joined the rest of her clothes and Cara was left cringing behind her hands. On Mrs Underwood's indication, Cara practically flew to the shower to shelter under the cascading torrent. 

The shower consisted of an open area in the furthest corner of the room. Its floor was slightly below the level of the rest of the room, with drainage grilles at intervals around the edge. The water fell from a head set into the high ceiling, the controls on the wall near to where Frankland had resumed reading his newspaper. 

Cara used the shampoo and soap provided then let the water work at rinsing away the suds. Throughout, she kept herself turned in towards the corner, hoping she wasn't being watched and not wanting to find out if she was. 

A timer rang out and the water turned itself off, leaving Cara exposed and dripping. Mrs Underwood was standing just outside the shower area, holding a large white towel invitingly. Cara stepped up to the main level and Mrs Underwood wrapped it around her, giving her a cursory rub. 

Frankland had abandoned his paper and was working at a counter by a sink and a computer, busily taking objects out of the cupboard underneath and lining them up on the counter. Occasionally he would examine an item then enter something onto the computer. 

Cara, her arms pinned inside the towel, had to endure Mrs Underwood's brusque rubbing, though her hair kept sending fresh drips down her back. 

"Can I go home soon? Please?" She asked, "I've things to do to sort the house out." Mrs Underwood smiled a humourless smile and shook her head. 

"No child, this is it now, you've been indentured. Once the Judge signs that bit of paper that's it honey, you're the property of the state." Mrs Underwood's matter-of-fact words and tone were about all Cara could take. Her knees began to sag and she reached out to lean on Mrs Underwood's arm. Step by step, Mrs Underwood led Cara to a robust bench topped with an inch of firm black padding. With each pace, Cara wondered when the neighbours would realise she wouldn't be going home. Would they feed the cat? She should have locked him out. What would happen to her father's photographs? The vegetables would rot if she didn't throw them out. She hadn't had a chance to vacuum before she left this morning, or to take the sympathy cards down, to put them somewhere safe. 

Laying Cara on her side on the bench, Mrs Underwood took the wet towel from her and stroked Cara's hair, tucking it behind her ear. 

"How old are you, child?" 

"Twenty two," Mrs Underwood sniffed her nostril-narrowing sniff. 

"We'll be grateful for small mercies then, I thought you were younger." Cara did not know whether to be grateful for or take offence at this. "Now there's no easy way forward from here child, so you're just going to have to pull yourself together and get through it in what ever way you can." Raising her face, she called to Frankland. "What's her term?" 

"Five years Ma'am,"  

"There you go, see, five years'll fly by and you won't know what you were worrying about. Now come on, on your front and let's get this next bit over quickly." Back to business, Mrs Underwood put a strong hand behind Cara's shoulder and firmly rolled her onto her front, loosening the towel at the top. She ran a scanner over the back of Cara's left shoulder and shook her head at Frankland. 

Cara had no heart to take comfort from Mrs Underwood's thought that five years would fly by. Her fight quelled, she lay still as tears quietly dripped onto the black plastic. She did not flinch as Frankland drew tight the sliding buckle across the backs of her ankles, pinning her legs down. Her heart still weighed with a grief more enormous than she thought it humanly possible to bear, she put up only the merest resistance when Frankland grabbed her left wrist in one hand, her left upper arm in the other and lifted it straight up behind her. It was not enough to physically hurt Cara, but loosened the skin over her left shoulder blade. 

Phyllis Underwood's gut knew, each time she took charge of a new indenture, whether this would be her favourite or most hated moment. Today, it was definitely her most hated, but she would perform it with the utmost professionalism, as she had innumerable times before. 

Phyllis Underwood wiped an antiseptic swab over Cara's shoulder blade and took a strong pinch of loose skin. She deftly thrust a large needle just under the surface and squeezed the trigger. Job done. To her credit, the girl did not make a sound. Just maybe she would have the strength to get through the next five years. 

Frankland released Cara's arm and pressed a small swab of cotton wool to the site of the puncture and taped it into place. To him, she was just one of many he saw on an almost daily basis. The ones he pitied were the unconvicted men who found themselves in this position. He saw these men to be leaders like himself, rather than followers. Indenture should be for followers, like this girl. There were very few women he saw who were leaders. Mrs Underwood was one he would concede as being such, but then he had seen the Indenture Manager master each and every one of her charges. 

Frankland released Cara's ankles from their strap and helped her to sit up. When she half-heartedly reached to pull the towel up to cover herself, he stayed her wrist and removed the towel, tossing it into a basket for used laundry. Concern etched Cara's face as Frankland fetched something from the counter whilst Mrs Underwood stabbed at the computer keyboard with her fore fingers. Grasping her left upper arm, Frankland ran a scanner over where the cotton wool was taped in place on Cara's back. He read out loud the number which appeared, and Mrs Underwood tapped it into the computer. 

"This is what you'll be known as now, child, so pay attention," she said. "Six-three-one. That's your identifier, your new first name if you like. The rest you'll only need if you come across another six-three-one, but you should know it all by heart anyway. Repeat after me, six-three-one." 

"Six-three-one." That much Cara could cope with. 

"Good girl, now repeat: five-two-eight, four-nine-five." 

"Five-two-eight, f-f-" Cara stumbled, her numb mind failing her. She knew of these chips, of course, they were issued to anyone found guilty of their first criminal offence or entering indenture for the first time. Somehow she hadn't realised she would be subject to the full spectrum of indentured indignities.
Frankland slapped Cara's face, it was only a light tap but it got her attention. 

"Pay attention, six-three-one, Ma'am is trying to teach you something that might just help keep you out of trouble. Listen!" The Indenture Manager's sniff caused Frankland to stand up straight again in front of Cara. She repeated the six digits and this time Cara spoke them back flawlessly. Then came another six. Cara concentrated hard and repeated them back, eight-eight-five, seven-nine-one. By this time, she had already forgotten the previous six. Fifteen digits, no longer Cara but six-three-one.

The Magistrate's words fell like salt on a freshly ploughed field. Cara tried to absorb their meaning but was still numb from two months of grieving for her father and brother. Towards settlement of the debts left by the family's grocery business, the Judge had said all remaining property and possessions was to be auctioned at the earliest opportunity. As the only surviving relative, Cara had struggled to keep the little shop open, rising at five to take deliveries, and working until midnight to meet the orders. Even when there had been three of them it had been a living nightmare making ends meet, which is how Andrew and John James had found themselves driving through early freezing fog to deliver vegetables to roadside vendors the morning a lorry had lost control and slewed into their van. The shop's Solicitor had gone through the figures with Cara, pointing out just how bleak things were, then promptly discharged himself for fear of worsening the situation. 

Now, undefended, with no-one to speak for her, Cara had waited in the bleak room with its stained walls for the opportunity to plead her case. Before she had a chance to speak, the Judge continued. 

"Furthermore, Cara James, twenty two years old and the only daughter of the late Andrew Philip James, to be legally indentured by proxy upon this date the twentieth of April two thousand and four for the period of five years in final settlement of the outstanding debt."

The crash of the gavel fractured Cara's fragile mask, allowing the terror to seep through. Legal indenture - just another word for legalised slavery - was the one thing her father had strived so hard to keep his family from. For the sixty years since the last Great War had ended in 1945, it had blossomed into a thriving industry, supporting and supported by the various Governments. Originating as a way of keeping the country's economics intact and reducing the number of homeless and poverty-stricken, indenture had arisen as a voluntary agreement where a business would provide for the essential needs of a worker in return for loyal service. 

Given the number of homes destroyed during the Blitz and other bombing raids across the country, legal indenture had been seen by many as a way of securing a roof, food and clean water in exchange for working conditions barely different from non-indentured employment. In fact, for many, the wages they would earn from such employment would not provide them with the same standard of housing and food as they would get through indenture. 

Over the years it had developed as the economic situation had stabilised. The more indentured workers there were, the fewer jobs there were available for the free population. At the latest count it was estimated that one person in ten would be indentured for at least a part of their life. Some sought private indenture in the hope that conditions would be better, the work less arduous. Men and women alike sought to privately purchase companions or 'pets', a business which had boomed in the late sixties and seventies, thanks to the sexual revolution. By the late eighties, as society grew more accepting of private indenture, clubs and events began to spring up to promote private indenture as a realistic alternative to industrial indenture. Even so, Britain was seen as slow to catch up, the majority of Europe having embraced the concept at least ten years earlier. Concurrently, as even the more mediocre businesses had prospered in light of the reduced cost of workers, this too had expanded beyond all original concepts. In addition, the indenture sector was one of the fastest growing business sectors in the Western world, employing many unindentured skilled workers to meet the growing demands of a booming industry.  

A dangerous precedent had been set thirty years before for the introduction of legal indenture by proxy - the indenture of one person by another on their behalf. Even the Courts had seen the potential minefield ahead and had set strict rules as to who could and could not act as proxy in such a situation. Magistrates and judges had the power to indenture by proxy rather than imprison or, in the case of debt settlement, in place of bankruptcy; it was in such a position that Cara now found herself. She had been wholly unprepared for such an event, certain as she was that she could convince the judge that she would be able to raise the necessary funds by selling the grocery business.

Apart from Cara and the Court Officials, there were only two others in the room to react to the 'All rise' order as the Judge retired. From their disinterested note-taking, Cara assumed them to be either reporters or law students. Stoically, she stood tall as the Usher came to direct her to where she should now go. She wanted to flee, to gulp fresh air until her lungs would burst, but her legs refused to obey her, it was all they could do not to collapse. Out of the Court Room itself, all the corridors looked alike. Cara seemed to recall at least three other staircases similar to the one they were now descending. 

Down, down they went. More corridors, more stairs, until eventually a door opened into not another corridor but a brilliantly bright room with high, frosted windows and white walls. The Usher handed an envelope of paperwork to a portly woman in her early fifties, wearing a white uniform with orange trim, identified by her name badge as being Mrs Underwood, Indenture Manager. Desolation blanketed Cara as the Usher left without a further word. The white walls, the grey plastic chairs lined up along one side, the woman's uniform, even the woman herself reminded Cara painfully of the hospital where her father and brother had died. As Cara waited, watching warily, Mrs Underwood pursed her lips and sniffed, her nostrils narrowing as she scanned through the documents.

Pet and her owner continued to wander throughout the crowds with her owner’s companion. As they walked, the owners chatted enthusiastically, the pets following at the outside mutely. They paused to watch a number of events, including several races. Pet admired the athleticism of the bare-foot runners, their tanned skins and muscular legs showing they spent much more time outside than pet did.

Leaving the events behind, the four entered the sales area where a number of open air marquees had been set up for the attending traders. Pet was relieved when her owner’s first stop was at a food stall. As her nerves had subsided she felt her hunger growing. She eyed the burger her owner bought with envy. She had not tasted such a thing since in more than six years and felt a sudden pang of desire, but meekly accepted the bland chicken salad which had been purchased for her.

Pet’s companion accepted a similarly unexciting dish from her owner, and tucked in ravenously, heedless to her owner’s choice for himself. Pet looked back to her own dish and chided herself on allowing her thoughts to wander beyond what experience had told her was her lot.

Finishing her food, pet’s companion looked up and caught pet’s eye, giving a nervous smile. Pet hoped her own was reassuring and she shifted to stand nearer to the younger girl, who brought a hand up to run a finger along pet’s bronze ribbon.

“Which class?” The whispered question took pet by surprise. She could not remember the last time she had been addressed in her own language.

“You’re English?” She whispered back, her eyes wide.

“Scottish, actually,” the younger girl smiled again, her earlier unease seeming to vanish though she occasionally cast her owner wary glances. “So, which class?”

“One of the earlier ones, we had to walk and jog for the judges, even I managed it!” Pet grinned, reliving the moment when she realised she had gained a ribbon.

Pet had been about to ask which classes her companion had entered when the leash at her throat jangled. Her eyes shot to her owner and saw him looking at her with an eyebrow raised. His friend looked likewise at pet’s companion and both fell silent. Pet took a step backward, folding her hands behind her in the small of her back, her eyes focussing on the floor. Even when she heard her companion’s pleas followed by a sharp slap she did not look up, though her face flushed. Apparently satisfied that both their charges had been suitably subdued, pet’s owner and his companion resumed their conversation, moving away from the food stall once they had finished eating.

Pet chewed her lip anxiously as they visited some of the stalls. All around her were straps, harnesses and any number of implements whose purposes she dreaded to guess at. Occasionally her owner would take down a set of cuffs and hold them to pet’s skin, or press a new cinch to her waist to see how the colour suited. Laughing, his companion took a ball gag from a selection on a stall and made advances to his pet, both he and pet’s owner laughing as the girl’s eyes widened and fear flew across her face. Pet hoped it was also intended as a joke when her owner pointed at the gag and then back to pet, both owners laughing loudly again.

As they visited other stalls, various purchases were made though pet saw few of them. She eyed her owner’s bags warily as they increased in number and weight. Both pets, she was pleased to see, seemed to have been forgiven for their earlier conversation.

All too soon her owner took his leave of his companion and headed back towards his van with pet. She hadn’t realised how tired she had felt until the motion of the vehicle travelling home had lulled her into a gentle doze.

Patiently, pet had allowed her owner to remove the accoutrements of the day, including her makeup and nail varnish, and shower her once more. Back in the front room pet had expected to be placed in her cage once more and had stood near the door, waiting for it to be opened. Instead, her owner unclipped her leash and sat down, patting his thigh and looking at pet expectantly. Grinning with glee, pet scampered over and knelt beside where her owner sat, her bare shoulder brushing gently against his knee.

Under her owner’s strong hand, stroking her hair, pet had relaxed against him and nestled into his leg. It was a rare treat to be allowed the freedom to relax with him and she seized the opportunity, relishing it.

Sighing softly, she looked up at him with a soft smile dancing on her lips. Seeing his own contented smile, she closed her eyes and slept, dreaming about the day’s events.

Outside, the bright light made pet blink. Her owner paused to check something written on a piece of paper, then moved off again. He headed straight towards an open-air enclosure and talked for a moment with the marshal co-ordinating the activities there. Pet kept her eyes on her owner, anxiously trying to work out what this one would require. No hint seemed forthcoming, but when several other owners took their pets to a spot indicated by the marshal, her own owner did likewise. The marshal gave a command and the owners all removed their leashes from their pets.

Folding the leash and slipping it into his back pocket, pet’s owner stroked her cheek softly with one finger. Almost in the same movement, he caught his finger under the top of her collar and pulled down, at the same time giving her a command she understood well from her training – ‘kneel’. Pet’s eyes slid down her owner’s body as her own sank into a graceful kneeling position. She concentrated hard on her owner’s feet, aware that the other pets in the group were performing the same actions. All apart from one, she realised, when the marshal barked an order and one owner re-attached the leash to his pet and led her from the enclosure. Snatching a quick glance, pet could not be sure but thought she recognised the other pet as being the silver rosette winner from her first competition.

The marshal issued another instruction, and each owner gave a further command to their pet – ‘stay’. Pet took a deep breath and kept her eyes on the ground so that she could not see her owner walking away. She drew comfort from not being alone in the enclosure and refused to be distracted even when two of her kind immediately followed their owners. She heard the marshal speak with the owners, and the jangle of the leashes as they were clipped back on, but she tried to focus on listening out for her own owner’s voice. She felt sure he would not desert her, but could not quite allay the creeping doubts stemming from the time before her owner had bought her.

After what seemed like a lifetime to pet, but she rationalised must only have been a minute or two, the owners re-entered the enclosure. One of the other pets glanced up, saw her owner and ran straight to him. Pet heard the girl receive a stinging slap to her thigh as the marshal shook his head, apparently disqualifying her from the competition. Just one of four now, thought pet. Her stomach churned as she watched her owner’s feet approaching her once more. Even when he stood before her, she remained kneeling. With a hint of a smile upon his lips, pet’s owner told her to stand, then when she had done so, snapped the leash back into place on her collar. His smile broadened when he heard his pet give an audible sigh of relief, and he allowed her a small stroke to the top of her shoulder before he led her to a large, enclosed tent.

Here, all eight pets and owners, including those who had not completed the event, were gathered. Some of the owners seemed to already know each other, as did some of the pets. A tall, broad man, not dissimilar to her owner, made a beeline for them as they entered the tent, his own pet in tow. Pet’s owner grinned and opened his arms in welcome, the two men patting each other on the back with the enthusiasm borne of long absence. They talked animatedly for a few moments, until pet’s owner pointed at his companion’s pet, grinning and nodding. The other man laughed loudly, also nodding, and pulled his pet forward so she stood between the two men. With some gentle persuasion from the large man’s hands, the pet made an awkward pirouette, displaying herself for both men. Pet felt a small pang of envy when she saw her owner reach out and, with his finger crooked, raise the other pet’s chin, examine the face, neck, shoulders admiringly, then raised the girl’s arms, feeling her muscles, wrists, waist, and finally patting her buttocks.

When both men had finished admiring the girl, the other man pointed at pet, and it was her turn to be dragged into the limelight. She breathed deeply and evenly, willing herself to remain calm and not flush too much at the attention. She turned on command and kept her eyes suitably lowered while the other man examined her flesh. Again, both men smiled broadly and made agreeing noises. As pet felt a gentle pressure on her leash which meant she was to resume her position next to her owner, she managed to catch the eye of the other girl, who gave her a small, reassuring smile.

At that point, a marshal entered the tent and spoke briefly to the owners. Pet followed suit as her owner closed the conversation with his companion and took his place to enter the enclosure once more.

This time, only one pet entered at a time. Her owner led her to a line marked on the floor, in front of an array of items displayed on a low table. The spectators around the enclosure fell quiet as the marshal spoke, giving what pet assumed to be an explanation of this event. Pet waited for an indication from her owner as to what she should do. He reached to unclip the leash from her throat, and crooked his finger under her chin, the same way as he had with his companion’s girl. Pet momentarily flashed her eyes up to her owner’s face and saw his own were locked on hers. Frozen, she swallowed hard, unable to move her eyes from his. Her owner spoke slowly and clearly to her, two words: ‘Leabhar. Teigh faui dhein.’ He stood up straight and folded his hands loosely behind his back.

Pet took a deep breath as she digested those words. She turned towards the table, her eyes scanning the objects present. Leabhar, leabhar, leabhar, she repeated silently. At one end of the table was a book, at the other end a newspaper. Pet forced herself to close her eyes and breathe deeper, slower. She gave a nod as she reached a decision, then stepped up to the table, picked up the book and returned to her owner, presenting to him the book, flat on the palms of her hands. He took it from her and smiled, his eyes twinkling. Pet gave a ragged breath of relief, not even realising she had been holding her breath since leaving the table.

Pet’s owner made a circular motion with his right hand that pet understood well. She glided in a clockwise circle around him and knelt gracefully when she reached his left side. The marshal spoke further and, when he had finished, pet’s owner stood her up to face him and once again spoke slowly and clearly to her. This time, she understood the word immediately, and fetched a pair of shoes from the table without hesitation. Pet was temporarily distracted by the applause that arose from the spectators, but the smile on her owner’s face calmed her.

The third instruction filled her with dread. She had understood she was to bring to her owner a towel, but there were two on the table: one red, one blue. Some words she had gleaned through her daily life, but colours had never entered into her highly limited vocabulary. At the table, the towels were placed next to each other. Pet felt her heart sink, and turned back to look at her owner. He repeated the colour to her, ‘Dearg’, but his body language gave away no clues. His hands were folded behind his back once more, and his eyes looked only at her face. Pet turned back to the table, her hands hovering over each towel in turn. The spectators were silent, pet was alone in her decision.

Pet picked up the blue towel and stood before her owner. A low sympathetic murmur rose from the crowd. Pet’s owner took the towel from her as before and she knelt at his left. The marshal came and collected the items given to her owner, and pet was led from the eventing area to a bench where she and her owner could watch the other competitors.

Scared of what she might see in her owner’s face, pet turned her own to look at him but was unable to raise her eyes. She was sure there would have been more of a reaction from him if she had picked the correct item, but still carried some hope nonetheless. Rather than being angry though, pet’s owner seemed to understand her dismay. He rubbed her arm reassuringly, the pulled out his wallet and searched through. Finally he found a red-coloured laminated admission card and held it out to his pet, repeating ‘Dearg, dearg.’ Instantly, pet’s dismay was washed away by the realisation that, for the first time, she had now been formally taught a word. Throughout the remainder of the event, pet felt a warm glow and couldn’t stop herself from smiling.

The quality of the other seven varied from brilliant to clueless, thought pet to herself. There were three who had bested her, one of them bringing back three correct items without a moment’s hesitation. Pet silently cheered at this, for it was the pet of her owner’s companion from the tent. Pet’s owner applauded enthusiastically as his companion brought his pet up to receive her rosette, then congratulated him after the enclosure had been cleared for the next event.