Cat and Mouse by Tim Vicary

ease the discomfort, and became horribly conscious of the heavy wardress sitting on them. Please God don't let that woman move, she thought — if she puts any weight on my stomach, I'll drown in all this, something will burst and I'll die . . .
    There was a gurgling sound from the funnel at the top of the tube, and the young man put the enamel jug down with a clang.
    ‘That's it, then, Mrs Becket. Now, I'll just take this tube and gag out, and leave you in peace to digest your meal.’
    He began to haul the tube up, hand over hand like a sailor hauling an anchor out of the sea. Sarah became aware that she had a headache, and a rising tide of nausea was flooding through her. Her face, her neck were sweating. Still she could not move. The doctor bent over her and began to fiddle with the knobs of the steel gag, to loosen it from her mouth. As he pulled it out, the nausea became unbearable. She retched, and a stream of brown vomit shot out all over him.
    The wardress let go of her head, and the doctor started back. Sarah was aware of the foul stuff all over her face and hair, and she struggled onto her side, her hands free for the first time. Feebly, she tried to brush the vomit away. It was on her face, her dress, the bed, the floor — everywhere. She saw it was on the doctor's coat and hands too — he was cursing and mopping them with a handkerchief.
    Sarah sat with her head in her hands on the edge of the bed, wondering if more would come. She wanted to do something about it, clean it up, but for the moment she was too weak to move.
    One of the wardresses took the bucket from the trolley and placed it in front of her. Then she opened the door, went out into the corridor, and came back with another prisoner, a sad, grey-haired woman in a serge dress covered with arrows, who had a mop and bucket of water in her hand.
    ‘There! This prisoner's been sick. Clean it up, will you, quick as you can!’
    The doctor stood by the trolley, mopping his coat. He glared at Sarah in disgust. ‘Look at what you've done now, you stupid woman! Mess everywhere! If you can't take the punishment, you shouldn't commit the crime. Learn to eat, or we shall be back again tomorrow, and every day from now on!’
    He marched out. The three wardresses stayed, watching the elderly prisoner slowly, methodically mopping the floor. She did it without comment, never raising her head to look at anyone. Sarah felt immensely sorry for her.
    ‘I'll clean it up myself next time,’ she whispered. Her voice was so faint that she wondered if anyone could hear it. She looked up at the wardress who had held her head. ‘Do you think . . . I could have a bath, or a wash at least? This stuff is in my hair and on my dress.’
    ‘Bathtime's six o'clock. You'll have to wait till then.’ The young slab-faced wardress glared at her, then relented slightly. 'But I'll see you get a bucket of water and a towel. Whatever 'appens, 'olloway's a clean prison, we can't change that.’
    ‘Thank you.’ Sarah gazed down at the woman scrubbing the slimy floor, and shivered. She felt so cold, feebler than she had ever been in her life. It has happened now, she thought slowly. I have suffered, as other suffragettes have done. And I am still alive.
    This is what men do to women. When we protest and stand up for our rights they don't understand or respect us at all. This is the only way they can fight back.
    Does Jonathan know they are doing this to me?
    When the floor was clean the young wardress sent the elderly prisoner to fetch a bucket of water and a towel. Then they all went out and left her alone.
    For a long time she sat without moving on the edge of her bed. Even to move a finger was an enormous effort. But then the smell and the stickiness of her hair became too much to bear, and slowly, very carefully, she knelt down on the grimy floor in front of the bucket, picked up the cake of grey, gritty soap, and started to wash her hair.
    Much later, she dragged herself to her