A SLAVE AT MI6
I was approached when I was up at Oxford. My tutor invited me round for a drink andthere was this man from MI6. I had no clear idea what I wanted to do when Igraduated. A degree in Russian literature didn't see to lead anywhere veryobvious. But he seemed keen on me and I've worked there ever since.
My life was prettyeasy. I did well. I got promoted. I bought my own flat in Fulham. I had my own car. Thenone evening I was driving down the Wandsworth Road. It was raining. I wastired. I didn't see her. The penalty for killing someone by careless drivingwas immediate and lifelong slavery, but MI6 stepped in. They didn't want myexistence made public and they couldn't afford to lose me. They agreed with theauthorities to deal with me privately.
I was seen by theDG who explained what would happen. I would continue working for them as ifnothing had happened. My career would be unaffected. However, my flat and allmy other possessions would be sold and the proceeds handed over to thegovernment. Away from the office, Iwould live as a slave. I would be assigned to one of the doormen at the office.He had been in the army and had worked in slave training centres before joiningthe intelligence services. I would have to gradually disengage from my existing network of friends and from my family. After a year, I would no longer beallowed any further contact with them. If I failed to give satisfaction in mynew role, I would be disposed of, and my sister's children would be taken intoslavery.
`This is your onlychance, Kennedy. We've done the best we can for you. Don't mess it up. Now,report to Mr Oladele straightaway. He's expecting you.'
I went down to theporters' area and found Mr Oladele. Ihad noticed him before. He was a giant of a man, 6ft 5in, and must have weighedin at 20 stone at least. He didn't have much to say to me.
`When we are in theoffice, I will address you as "Sir" and you will treat me as the doorman. Whenwe are out of the office, you are my slave. This is my address. When you leavethe office this evening, go to the slave gym under the arches. Report in.You've got a locker there and a trainer has been assigned to you. Ninetyminutes at the gym. Change into the slave clothes you'll find in your lockerLeave your freeman's clothes there. Report back at this address and I willbrief you about your future life.'
When I left theoffice, I struggled to make sense of my new life. As far as my colleagues wereconcerned, nothing had changed. They knew noting of the accident, nor of thefollowing negotiation. Only I, the MI6 DG and one or two others knew thesituation. I was to live as if nothing had happened and yet my life was to beentirely different. I had an idea about what kind of life these slaves lived. Ihad seen the system developing and, like most people, thought it worked well.At least these people were making themselves useful instead of costing us all afortune mouldering away in prison. But I had never imagined becoming a slavemyself.
I had never been ina slave gym before. It was different to any other gym I'd known. Slavesexercise naked and in silence. Trainers are free men and can whip the slaves ifthey seem to be slacking. There seemed to be more formal whippings if a slaveperformed consistently below the requirements set by his Master. I had beenassigned to a stocky Polish guy who took against me from the beginning. Heseemed to resent the particular circumstances of my enslavement and seemed togo out of his way to show me I was no more than a common slave.
Mr Oladele hadgiven me an address in Walworth, close by Burgess Park. I had no permission touse public transport, so had to run there. Slaves are expected to runeverywhere. A slave found walking, unless he's got a heavy load to carry, canbe whipped on the spot. It was a prettyrough area and Mr Oladele's flat was in one of those huge blocks you see ontelevision after a murder. I was glad that it was summer and so still light,but getting to the flat was not easy. As I was climbing the steps, some blackteenagers were coming down. I knew I had to get out of their way. Slaves areexpected to press themselves up against the wall to let a free man pass. But Iknew also that there's nothing teenager boys love more than to taunt a slave.They know they can't do serious harm, but bullying a slave is perfectlyacceptable – and indeed encouraged.
Hey, look whatwe've got here!' shouted one of the lads. A dirty, fucking slave. You going togive us some respect, bimbo? You going to clean our shoes for us.'
`I dropped to myknees and found the shoe of one of the young guys firmly planted in front ofme. I bent down to lick it. It wasn't muddy, but it was pretty encrusted withurban grime, and dog shit seemed to be the main part of it – especially on theunder sole.
`Clean it out,bimbo. I don't like that shit on my soles. My mam gets bad if she finds metaking that into the house.'
I licked as best Icould. I knew I shouldn't use my hands, or expect to be allowed any sort ofimplement to get into the cracks of his soles. All I could do was to use asmuch saliva as possible and hope that I could suck it out. The guy was gettingbored.
You're fuckinguseless, bimbo. I've got to go. When I see you again, you can finish the job.When I see you again you'll get down on your knees and say, Please Mr MikeSir, can I clean your shoes?' So, what are you going to say when you see next?'
`Please, Mr Mike,Sir, can I clean your shoes.'
`That's right,bimbo. Where do you live?'
`I told him.'
`So Mr Oladele hasgot himself a slave? You must be a present from a rich friend! See you soon,Bimbo.'
And they went. Istayed on the ground until they were well out of sight and then hurried alongthe walkway. I finally found Mr Oladele's flat on the third floor on a longexternal walkway. He opened the door and let me in.
`Strip.'
Slave clothingdoesn't consist of much - a singlet and shorts and some second or third hand shoes.I stripped off and followed him into the sitting room.
`Feet apart, chestout, hands clasped behind your neck.'
I leapt to. He sat down and looked at me.
`You're my slavenow and will respond to every command I give you immediately and respectfully.At the end of each working day, you will go the gym and then come straight backhere, where you will be naked at all times. You will clean, shop, cook. Iexpect this place to be immaculate. You will not use the furniture. You can usethe toilet, but lift the seat, and only use it sitting on the rim. You wash atthe gym, not here. You can wash your office clothes at the gym too, and arrangeto have them cleaned. New office clothes will be issued by MI6 as and when theyare needed. I will decide when they are needed. Your slave clothes don't needwashing. When you are not working, you will stand by the door in that positonuntil you receive further instructions. In the morning, you will prepare mybreakfast and then spend ninety minutes in the slave gym before starting work. It'sno more than three miles from here to the office, so you won't need to usepublic transport. You'll sleep in the kitchen. There's a rolled up piece offoam under the stairs that you can use, as long as you put it away eachmorning. You won't need any bedding. Any questions?'
I took a while toprocess all he was saying. I was still disorientated. When I left my flat thismorning, I was anxious but had no idea that I would never see it or any of mythings again. I replied as I supposed a slave should.
`No, Sir. Thankyou, Sir.'
`You'd better knowthat I'm West Indian. My folk were enslaved by your folk. When I read aboutwhat they suffered at your folk's hands, it does my head in. Maybe as I makeyou suffer, I'll be able to cool some of the anger that's inside my head. Andif you ever think that what you suffer is unfair, just think about what yourfolk did to my folk out there in Jamaica.'
`Yes, Sir.' I knewenough about what used to go happen on the plantations in Jamaica to feel arenewed dread about my future.
`Now, boy, I feellike giving you a beating now. You need to get used to what you are now, andthere's nothing like a beating to help a slave be a slave. I need to beat thefreedom out of you. Lean on the back of that chair.'
He opened a drawand took out a thin cane. This was to be no easy spanking, or belting. This wasgoing to be the real thing. I had never been beaten in my life. I had no ideawhat it would feel like, but I knew that enduring almost constant pain wasgoing to be a central part of my new life.
I bent over thechair, as instructed and waited. I didn't have to wait long. I head the soundof the cane whistling through the air and hit my butt. After a second, I feltthis piercing pain slice through me. It was like nothing I had ever experiencedbefore. I didn't know what to do, where to look. I only knew that I had toendure it, that there was no escape, and that this mind-numbing pain was to bemy new companion. The blows kept on landing. I didn't count them. I think theremust gave been about a dozen.
`Stand up. I'mgoing to have my tea now. You can put on your clothes and go and buy a sack ofslave chow and some slave powders. They sell it at the shop round the corner.Here's a key. Take my card. If I ever find you eating or drinking anything ofmine, you'll get double what you've just got.'
`Yes, Sir.' I had heard of slave chow and the powders.They had been specially developed to give slaves the nutrients they needed, butwith nothing extra. I didn't look forward to trying them, but I looked forwardeven less to going once more on to the walkway. I hoped Mr Mike and his matesweren't still there. I hoped nobody was there.
I got to the shopwithout meeting anyone, but it wasn't easy to get the stuff. As soon as Ipushed the door open, the guy at the counter shouted at me,
`Over there. Stayout of the way.'
I went over in thedirection he was pointing and waited. It was a corner of shop that had beenstripped bare and seemed to be a kind of waiting area. Maybe this was whereslaves were meant to wait until they were served, but there were no otherslaves there. I supposed that Burgess Park doesn't see too many slaves. They comeexpensive if you need to buy one – even the old ones.
After a while aslave came out of a back room and saw me. He came over and asked what I wanted.He gave me the sack and the box of powders and took the card. It all seemedquite simple, though I wondered how I was going to get the sack back to theflat. It was big and very heavy. Fortunately, I managed it, and without meetinganyone. Mr Oladele was watching TV. I stripped and went into the sitting room.
`Mix yourself somechow in a bowl and a drink. You'll find that there's a bowl and a cup in thekitchen that you can use – but make sure you never use anything else. Then comeand show it to me. If you mix more than the stated dose, you'll get anotherround of the cane. MI6 doesn't want to spend more on you than it has to.'
I didn't want tomix more than I was allowed, at least until I had tasted it. I showed theresult to Mr Oladele, and it seemed to satisfy him.
`Eat it in thekitchen and stay there until I call.'
The kitchen was asmall galley kitchen that looked onto the walkway. There was nowhere to sitexcept the lino-covered floor, and I couldn't sit anyway since my butt cheekswere on fire. I was obviously going to spend quite a lot of my time in thekitchen. I was going to spend quite a lot of my time in this wretched one-bedroom councilflat, in this most depressing part of London, and whenever I left the flat, Iwould get set upon by the local bullies. And this was my life for theforeseeable future. How could I possibly combine my two lives? How could Ioperate half way decently in the office, if the rest of my life just consistedof this flat and Mr Oladele?