The girl who stood in the dock was a tall, busty
blonde - her name, Lisa Cavan. Perhaps
one should refer to her as a young woman, for her age was twenty-two. One could sense the tension in her yet, all
the same, there was a look of defiance on her attractive, well-chiselled
features; features which betrayed traces of the Scandinavian in her ancestry.
Her dress was in the period of her time (the
latter quarter of the twenty-first century), being composed of a tunic blouse
and a figure-moulding pair of slacks.
The outfit showed her generous but well-proportioned figure to advantage
and the colour - a powder blue - seemed to emphasise her femininity. Held by a cord at her slim white throat was a
black cloak, lined with silk of a darker shade of blue. This cloak was thrown back behind the girl’s
shoulders.
Before Lisa Cavan, raised high on their dais, were
the three magistrates who had been conducting her trial. They had just returned to the Court after a
brief consultation in an adjacent private room.
The moment of their verdict was at hand.
The girl’s hands suddenly gripped the brass dock-rail tightly and she
swayed slightly. In her heart, she
already knew that verdict. The trial,
without jury, had been a mere charade. A
formality which had to be gone through.
For those accused of her ‘crime’ were invariably convicted.
Even so, being human, Lisa Cavan held on to thin
strands of hope until the last. One
never quite knew. Perhaps her
appearance, her manner, might soften them.
The chief magistrate was a man of some sixty
summers. Balding, greying, his rounded
features gave a first impression of joviality which was quickly denied by the
coldness of his pale blue eyes. He was
flanked by two women magistrates of similar age - both lean, hatchet faced
creatures, with angular, bony bodies.
All three gazed at the young woman in the dock, coldly and
dispassionately. If the chief magistrate
saw her sway in the dock, he did not comment on it, nor did he suggest she be
offered a set by one of the two female guards who stood with her in the dock.
‘Lisa Cavan’ said the chief magistrate, after a
prolonged pause, ‘you have been accused, and put on trial here, for a serious
crime.’ Another pause. ‘Extra marital sex, under the age of
twenty-five years, is a serious crime.
You do realise that?’
The blonde head bowed fractionally; the light
brown eyes wavered.
‘Yes ... Your Honour,’ answered Lisa Cavan in a
low, well-modulated voice.
‘Speak up, girl,’ ordered the chief magistrate
sharply.
Frankly, he admitted to himself (and only to
himself, of course) that he had enjoyed this morning. He liked trying that sort of case, especially
when the prisoner was as attractive of face and figure as Lisa Cavan was. She had the looks and shape which made her a
menace to society - and to herself.
All the same, one could not deny what a ... well
... what a ...
No, I must not think like that, the chief
magistrate told himself inwardly. I’ll
get myself into trouble one day if I go on doing so. Still, it should be possible for him to
arrange to pay visits sometime to the Reform School where he intended sending
her. That would be interesting. And revealing, under certain circumstances.
The girl was strong and had an excellent body.
Yes ... he must arrange something.
A man in his position was entitled to make application to pay periodic,
inspectorial visits to the Reform Schools.
One had to see that everything was being carried out as the Law laid
down. Neither more, nor less.
‘Yes, Your Honour,’ repeated Lisa Cavan in a
louder voice. Her head came up again and
hr jaw had a rather more defiant jut to it.
A spell in one of the Schools will do this
arrogant trollop a power of good, thought one of the women magistrates. Just look at her standing there, flaunting
herself, still shameless. She, who had
admitted misconduct with two different men over a period of twelve months! She wondered whether the six-month sentence
they had decided was sufficient. Still,
the Schools were rigorous. No denying
that. Very rigorous, she thought with
satisfaction. Lisa Cavan would not be
looking so defiant in a few weeks’ time!
‘On the evidence I and my colleagues have heard
... and, indeed, on your own admission ... there is no shadow of doubt as to
your guilt,’ the chief magistrate was saying.
Lisa bit her lower lip. It was a full, pale pink
lip, slightly pouting. Yes ... it had
been inevitable all along. Now it was
simply a question of how long they gave her.
She must be brave to the end. Not
let her generation down. Nor the few, secret,
like-minded friends she had.
‘My colleagues and I have considered your case
carefully,’ continued the chief magistrate, ‘and have come to the conclusion
you are in serious need of reform. For
your own good, as much as anything else, young lady. After all, you are still only twenty-two ...’
How monstrous it was, Lisa was thinking. Three more years before I will be permitted
to do what my body naturally demands.
Unless she got married ... which was the last thing she wanted to
do. A married woman scarcely rated more
than a man’s chattel. It was
disgusting! She thought enviously of how
it had all been a hundred years before.
With women free and equal; with girls (in their teens and unmarried)
able to have sex whenever they wanted.
Oh, how lucky they had been then!
‘Lisa Cavan,’ intoned the chief magistrate, ‘have
you anything to say before I pass sentence?’
Thinking that moment of the past (of which she had
read as much as she could) the monstrous injustice of the whole hideous, new
regime rose up within Lisa. It seemed to
start in the pit of her stomach, then swell upwards until it filled her throat,
as bitter as aloes. It was a regime that
must be changed ... one way or another ... one day. They must get back to civilisation as it
was. Bath to freedom. And she, Lisa Cavan, must play her part! She must not flinch at this moment of
crisis. She must act like those brave
suffragettes had done in olden days.
‘Long live the FFYM!’ she cried in a loud voice
... at the same time raising a clenched fist.
At her side, Lisa heard one of the guards gasp and
move closer to her. It was the only
sound that broke the deathly silence that struck both officials and spectators
in Court. Even the chief magistrate
looked temporarily put out. Scarcely
able to believe his ears. Then one of
the women magistrates gave a sudden, angry snort, tapping the chief magistrate
on the arm.
‘I think we must retire again immediately,’ she
said.
‘Of course ... of course ...’ agreed the fleshy
round-faced judge.
‘The Court will rise!’ sang out an official.
There was a grating of chairs and a shuffling of
feet as the three figures hurried to the side door of the Court.
Lisa Cavan remained standing stiffly in the dock,
her pale face a mask, but chin still held high.
My God ... now I’ve done it, she was thinking, with something akin to
panic mounting in her. But ... whatever
happens ... I’ve made my gesture. That’s
something. I shall be remembered. One of the heroines of the past in the
decades to come. After all, someone had
to make a start, someone had to make a stand!
At her sides, the two women guards glanced at her
from time to time. Their eyes were
filled with hate and malice. Both of
them loathed pretty, sexy, young women.
However, there was, in those eyes, also a certain steely satisfaction.
They were well aware what was coming to Lisa
Cavan.
And in considerably greater measure than had
originally been decided!
***
The FFYM, it should be explained, is the
abbreviation for the FREEDOM FOR YOUTH MOVEMENT. And those who live in the twentieth century
may well think it strange that the necessity for any such organisation should
exist in this country in the twenty-first century.
That is because people have been misled into
believing that ‘progress’ is inevitable and that greater freedom and ever-increasing
material wealth is to be the lot of mankind.
This is a fallacy, which we foster because it is more comfortable to do
so. There is, in fact, no reason why
civilisation should not go into a retrograde spiral ... bringing forms of
dictatorship and regimes of iron discipline which could match anything in the
past. Indeed, one might hazard that, noting certain present trends, a
retrograde spiral is more likely than any other!
Thus it is, a hundred or so years hence, Lisa
Cavan is in the dock. In its wisdom, the
Government of the day had decreed against sexual licence - amongst many other
similar laws designed to restrain and control the activities of its citizens. You might say that the ‘do-gooders’ have
triumphed. To the limit. At last, they are fully in charge. They revel in their power. They feed on it, making even harsher laws. To control is the very essence of
their existence.
Yet, as we have seen, there are still those
courageous enough to defy the Law. Still
those of a rebellious spirit.
Such as Lisa Cavan.
***
Within three minutes the magistrates were back on
their dais ... now even sterner of visage than before. Once more, Lisa gripped the brass rail before
her, white-knuckled. Her heart was
thumping and she felt rather sick. It
was difficult indeed to keep a brave face on things.
Did the world know what it took to make such a
gesture? To commit such a folly?
‘Lisa Cavan,’ said the chief magistrate in a
sepulchral voice, ‘it is now obvious that your case is a far more serious one
than your original, illicit sexual activities had led us to believe. Your outburst in Court was an insult both to
me and my colleagues ... and the whole of the majesty of the Law. It is something not to be tolerated. Especially in one so young. It is my duty to see you are reformed. Thoroughly reformed. Accordingly, I have now to tell you that your
sentence has been increased from six months to twelve months ...’
Lisa closed her eyes, shuddered, and swayed
again. What a monstrous increase for so
small a gesture! Double the time. Oh God, had it been worth it?
‘What is more,’ the chief magistrate was saying,
‘you will serve your sentence at a Grade I Reform School.’
There was a pause and one of the guards at Lisa’s
side gave a small, satisfied nod.
‘Do you understand what that means, Lisa Cavan?’
came the question.
Lisa shook her head. ‘No ... n-no ... Your Honour,’ she answered
weakly. And, indeed, she did not
understand. Only in the vaguest way. She had heard rumours.
‘There are two grades of Reform School, young
lady,’ said the chief magistrate. ‘Grade
II is reserved for the majority of offenders.
The regime and discipline are strict.
However, Grade I is reserved for special offenders, such as yourself ...
and the regime and discipline are considerably stricter. You, with your rebellious arrogance - not to
mention your sexual proclivities - are worthy of such a place! Guards ... take her down!’
Lisa, tightly gripped by the arms, was marched
along the corridor beneath the Court towards her cell.
One whole year of imprisonment lay ahead!
Of course, she had heard about the Schools. Who hadn’t?
They had them for both girls and youths.
There were plenty of stories about them, but she had always reckoned
quite a lot of them were propaganda put about by the authorities in order to
scare youngsters. Still, all the same,
there could be no doubt they were strict places.
Places where one was reformed.
Everything in Lisa Cavan’s make-up rebelled
against that idea. Why could she not be
who she really was, and not something the State wanted her to be? It was both heartless and immoral.
For her, though, it now seemed things were going
to be worse than for the average. A
Grade I School. Fearfully, Lisa wondered
exactly what that meant, at the same time trying to steel herself for the awful
future which lay ahead.
Still, it won’t be for ever, she told herself.
The cell was unlocked and she was thrust
inside. One of the guards stood over her
as Lisa fell on to her bunk.
‘Now you’re really for it,’ she announced,
jeeringly. ‘And, believe me, I’m
glad. You’re just the type that need
reforming.’
‘Grade I, too,’ chimed in her companion.
‘Mmm ... yes ... just the ticket. Couldn’t be better after her behaviour, in my
opinion.
The two guards turned and left the cell, slamming
the door and then locking it behind them.
Lisa Cavan slumped down and buried her face in her hands, the tears
begging to flow.
They were the first trickle that would soon become
a flood.