The Benefit of the Doubt
From daemon@anon.penet.fi Date: Mon, 19 Jun 1995 12:49:34 UTC Subject: Re: The benefit of the doubt 1/3 Hiya Casey Sorry the story got chopped up. I sent it in a bit of a hurry and the packets were probably too large. <Schoolboy G> Having divided it, like Gaul, into 3 parts, I will re-send. Mark
The Benefit of the Doubt
by Mark Hastings
“Casey Morgan, go to the bench.”
“But – ”
“GO TO THE BENCH!”
Mr Harrison didn’t shout, whatever impression the Upper Case may have created. He raised his voice only slightly above its normal volume, but the well-modulated English vowels were abruptly reinforced with steel. The time for argument, for appeasement, for compromise – assuming there had ever been one – was gone. Casey left the room, and Went To The Bench.
It was a long, dark-wooden Bench, probably a pew rescued from some blitzed church during the last war. It stood outside the office of John Trotman, Deputy Head of School. For reasons which no-one could explain, not even those who major in remembering every detail of the School’s history (Mr Whitworth, the crumbling classics master, for example), administering discipline to those who misbehave during timetabled lessons has always been the responsibility of the DHS. And Trotman is a senior boy who takes his responsibilities seriously.
For Casey, a ‘difficult’ Vth Form girl of American parentage who didn’t know whether to go with her heart and love the school, or stick by her head and despise it, this was a first visit to the Bench. She’d often thought about going, fascinated by the ritual of the process and the apparent arbitrariness of the punishments handed out: a caning here, 500 lines there, it seemed a Lucky Dippy sort of a way to run a school. In particular, the physical punishments fascinated her. It was many years since her last spanking, and the use of an English school cane was several orders of magnitude more severe. Passing DHS’s study door when punishment was in progress had become something of a hobby for Casey. The thought of going through it to receive had been thrilling, in the safety of her bed at night. Now it was far from thrilling. Her heart was pounding, her palms were sweaty, her skin tingled. Curiously, she felt alert. Alive.
The Bench was already occupied when she reached it. Casey wasn’t sure how she felt about this. The other culprit was Mark Hastings, a Lower VIth former whom she knew slightly and thought she liked. These, however, were not ideal circumstances for extending their acquaintance. He was extensively un-overjoyed to see her. He would have preferred another boy, she thought. She tried to smile at him, but it didn’t work well. ‘Talk’, thought Casey, ‘that’s probably the wrong thing to do, but hell . . .’
“How long will we have to wait?”
Mark’s Timex said 12.45. Trotman would be along by 1.30. You had to hope that lunch was edible. He might, just, be in a good enough mood to leave the cane cupboard closed.
“About 45 minutes. We’re not supposed to talk.”
“Jeez.”
Mark wasn’t sure whether it was the length of the wait or the no-talking rule which elicited this response. He also wasn’t sure how to respond. He was pretty certain this was Morgan’s first time on the Bench. Had she been a Vth Form boy it would have been in order to ignore her, or to take out some of your own anxiety by condescending. But there had always been something about her, maybe her walk or they way she met your eyes in a retaliating-first sort of way, which made him inclined to offer her the benefit of the doubt.
“It’s OK. Just don’t look at me. Look straight ahead and keep your voice down. We’ll hear Trotman miles off and no-one else will come further than the far end of the corridor. It’s your first time, isn’t it?”
“So?”
“You might just get lines.”
“Or -?”
“Or he might decide to make an example and cane you.”
‘That’s it?’ thought Casey. ‘Eleven laconic words are all you need?!’
“And you?”
“Oh, I’ll probably get beaten. I was Benched two weeks ago and lucky to get away with it then.”
“Oh, right.”
Long pause. It occurred to Casey that Harold Pinter might have spent time outside his DHS’s study at some point.
“Why don’t we just get up and walk away?”
In spite of the Le Carre convention, Mark shot her a glance. “What?”
“Yeah. I mean, no-one knows we’re here. except the masters that sent us out. They won’t check out whether we came.”
“They could.”
“They won’t.” Mark considered this. In all probability, she was right. Charlie Shaylor, out of whose General Studies class he had been unceremoniously marched, would never think of asking Trotman what punishment had been administered. Certainly, it would be a relief to get up and walk away, to stop the stomach twisting, but -
“It’s not allowed.”
“So you just sit here quietly, bend over when he tells you, and then thank him for hitting you?”
Mark nodded.
“Why, for Crissakes?”
“Keep your voice down. You just do, that’s all.”
“So you can be macho and show all your friends the stripes.” In spite of herself, the situation, her nervousness, Casey felt adrenalin hit her as those words came out. Talking aloud about caning seemed to have a perverse effect on her.
“Maybe. Maybe because you deserve it.”
“Deserve it! All I did was – ”
And what had she done? Come straight out of not-ok corner and punched Mr Harrison by calling him ‘dumb’ in front of the English class. She liked Mr Harrison. He read Shakespeare with effortless familiarity. He understood, or often seemed to, how she felt. But she was having a testy day, things were on top of her, she was feeling outside everything, she lashed out. She knew damn well it would have been better for everyone, even for her, if she’d bitten the sharp words back. She was ashamed of them. Come to think of it, she was ashamed of a lot of things.
“Well, I’m going. You stay here and enjoy your caning.” And she was off, running down the corridor, round the corner, to safety. Mark watched her go. He’d been wrong, obviously. That was a pity, but it couldn’t be helped.
Trotman arrived, punctually, at 1.30pm. Lunch had not been good. In fact, his whole morning had been far from ideal. The Bench had only one occupant, which was a shade disappointing. On the other hand, it was Hastings, whom he had an excuse to cane severely. Clouds and silver linings, really.
The boy stood in front of the desk. Head bowed, eyes down.
“Twice in two weeks, Hastings. Can you offer me any reason why I should NOT cane you?”
“None, Sir.”
“Under normal circumstances, I should content myself with a dozen. In view of the fact that my leniency last time has clearly been taken advantage of, I propose to double that. Anything to say?”
What could be said? 24 was harsh, but not unprecedented. Be grateful it wasn’t more. “Enjoy your caning,” Morgan had said. That now seemed unlikely. “No, sir.”
“Jacket off, then.”
The cane cupboard was opened, the instrument selected. Mark saw, to his horror, that it was the heavy punishment cane – considerably worse than the senior he usually took. The wooden-framed chair was placed in the middle of the room. Mark knelt on it, bent over the back, gripped the legs. Trotman watched the black material tighten across the younger boy’s backside. It made an attractive target for the rattan he held.
“Count them, Hastings,” he said, staccato.
The caning began. Trotman was in no hurry. Twenty seconds or so between strokes, placing them first high – in the centre of Mark’s bottom – and then low, on his upper thighs where the pain would be worst. As is only right where the cane is used, each stroke fell with full force. There was no clemency.
After just four, Mark knew he was in trouble. The pain was severe, especially on the low cuts. He had begun to tremble involuntarily. It was as much as he could do to call out the number of the stroke.
Trotman was enjoying himself. The boy must be made to suffer. If there were no sign of tears by the twelfth, trousers and underpants would have to come down, and the last dozen be laid, deliciously, on bare flesh. Hastings was a pleasure to beat. Trotman dropped the fifth low, surprising his victim.
“Oww! Five, sir!”
“No yelping, please, Master Hastings.”
“Sorry, s-s-sir.” By the eighth, Mark felt sure he would break. None of his previous canings had been as severe as this one. Usually where multiples of six were involved, a break was called after each half-dozen. Trotman, however, had hit his rhythm, and showed no sign of pausing.
Until there was a knock on the door.
Four more strokes of the cane were administered to the waiting boy’s backside. It was unheard-of to interrupt a DHS during the infliction of punishment. Whoever it was would go away. Nevertheless, Trotman’s rhythm had been interrupted. Although the strokes were still hard, they didn’t push the level of pain significantly higher. Mark began to get his breathing back under some semblance of control.
And then there was another knock on the door. Louder. More insistent. Extraordinary. Trotman swore under his breath, actually threw the cane to one side, marched to the door, yanked it open.
“What the hell do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy.”
Frightened or not, Casey wasn’t about to be dismissed. Not after getting this far. “I was sent to the Bench this morning, sir.”
“Then why the – why weren’t you there when I arrived?”
“I – I had to go somewhere. The . . . lavatory.”
“Against the rules. You should have gone before you – “ Something in Morgan’s eyes stopped him. It dawned on him that he just might be dealing with a specifically female problem. And in any case, he was aware that, with every passing second, Hastings would be recovering. “In here. Face the corner and wait. Hastings has a dozen to come, and then it’ll be six of the best for you.” Trotman was genuinely angry, but even had he not been, it would never have occurred to him to treat Morgan differently from any other Vth former. A caning she deserved, and a caning she would have. In due course. Waiting, of course, was all part of the punishment.
Casey felt odd. For so many years, she had thought about this moment. The impending punishment, the mix of thrill and fear. Later she would look back, in the serenity of absolution, and wonder at the numbness of it all. Briefly she took in the sight of Mark, bent over as she herself would be in a few moments’ time. She saw his sports jacket lying across the nearby armchair, as though cast off for a game of pool. And then she turned to face the corner, closed her eyes and tried to get a grip on her heartrate.
For Mark, those few seconds of interruption had been enough. No matter how hard the second dozen, he could probably cope.
Rattan whipped through air again. Casey thought how different it sounded, this side of the door, this close. She felt nothing at all for Mark, despite the little moans which accompanied every thwapp! of cane on trouser seat. It was nothing personal, but she hoped Trotman would thrash all his anger out on the boy. She opened her eyes.
“T-t-twenty-four, sir! Thank you, sir!”
“Morgan, turn around. Hastings, stand up!” She watched Mark rise, slowly, obviously in severe pain from the swart stripes which must lie across his backside and upper thighs. Still there was no pity for him. He’d got himself sent to the Bench, he knew the rules. He didn’t look at her. It was as much as he could do to limp to the door and leave, closing it softly behind him.
Trotman crossed the room, stowing the bent-wood chair against the wall and replacing the cane he had used on Mark with the lighter Senior.
‘This is it,” Casey thought, ‘Oh God!’ But there was, she knew, nothing to be done. It surprised her to realise that she didn’t want to run away. Her fortress is a faithful heart; her pride is suffering.
“Six of the best, Morgan, and be very grateful indeed that I don’t double it, under the circumstances.”
Her hands were clasped behind her back. She gazed at the old rug which hid cracked and grimy floorboards. “Yes, sir,” she said, colourlessly.
“Jacket. Bend over and touch your toes.”
As she had imagined a hundred times, Casey bent. Feet together, knees together, fingers brushing the toecaps of her regulation black shoes. The cane tapped against her tightened seat.
“Is this your first caning, Morgan?”
‘Oh jeez,’ Casey thought, ‘what have I done wrong now?’ “Yes, sir.”
“Better make it one to remember then.” She felt her white shirt being pulled out from her black trousers, and folded neatly up her back. Inexplicably, gratitude to Trotman flooded her soul.
The Deputy Head of School had inflicted many sixers in his time, but even he was moved to remark, over dinner in the Junior Common Room that night, on how well he caned Casey Morgan. Six hard, straight strokes, the cane angled slightly to the left on impact so that its weal would be of maximum length and even. There was, he confided to the other School Prefects, probably a little blood. The marks would be with her for two or three weeks, at least. But she had taken it well, as a first timer. After four she had been visibly shaking, and when she finally stood up, at the end of the six, tears and snot were mixed on her red face. But her yelps had been subdued, and there was something in her walk as she made for the door . . . In the considered opinion of the DHS, something might, after all, be made of Casey Morgan.
Before the events of that afternoon, Casey would have flown into a rage at such a remark. While the pain was still at its peak, as it was for an hour or so while the welts rose, sweating against her clothing, she certainly couldn’t have managed a rage, or anything approaching it. But later? Later, the rage seemed to have gone. A warmth spread. Not merely the sexual one, although that did come, of course, but some strange balm which wasn’t guilt, or shame, or fear. When she saw Mr Harrison that evening, there was no need to apologise, or to offer half-justifications. He knew, simply by looking at her, that the matter was closed, and she knew he knew. Somehow, everything had been resolved.
When she left Trotman’s study, the tiny corner of her mind which was not layered by pain was deeply grateful to Mark Hastings for not waiting. But at tea he looked out for her, and they sat together. Little was said, because little needed to be said.
“That was a heck of a beating you took,” offered Casey.
And with something close to a smile, Mark replied “It would’ve been very much worse if you hadn’t come back.”
© 1995 by Mark Hastings
