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I scrambled for it, catching the rice in my broken fingers like a living thing and pushing it between my lips. He watched me. Not smiling, not frowning, just watching. There was fruit on the tray, four sections of whitish-orange jackfruit. I picked them up carefully, one at a time, sitting with my knees against my breasts, my chin in the valley between them. Television. I was going on television again, that was why they gave me fruit. I ate it slowly, rocking back and forth and staring at the wall.My first time had been very hard. I hadn't wanted to read the words and I'd refused. So they'd beaten me from the waist down with truncheons of rubber hose filled with sand. I hadn't been able to walk or even stand, but I'd been able to read what they told me to as I sat on a chair. My face had not been marked then, not once, nor had my arms or shoulders. Any part of me that would be seen by my friends and family was clean and soft and unbruised. It shamed me.The second time I'd been more. There is no Mrs Fitzgerald on the birth certificate.”“Really? And how would you know that, Mrs Flanders?”Her face went white when she realised she had given away knowledge of the birth certificate’s details.The sergeant went on, “Who is your son’s father, Mrs Flanders? Would it be Squadron Leader Aitchison?”If her face could get any whiter, it would be like paper. She clearly was admitting through her reactions that this was the truth. “You can’t know that!” she exclaimed.He wagged his finger at her, saying, “Knowing something and being able to prove it are two different things, Mrs Flanders. I know it and you know it, is quite enough for me. I have no intention of doing anything about it. Does your sister, the Squadron Leader’s daughter-in-law, know these facts?”“Yes”, she admitted. “I introduced these two a few years later. How did you know about her?”“You have been seen chatting in the store, and she was recognised.”He paused, and went on, “So, do you recognise your son in the car.
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