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Year of the Oar -Part 2
I wanted to throw the drink over him and walk away. I wanted to slap him as he continued to stare at
my body. I could see his eyes, his mind imagining how I might look, chained, whipped and working
like a slave at the oar. Something stopped me. My next words seemed to come from someone else’s
lips, as if I was watching the conversation from across the room.
“And how would you guarantee that I would receive payment? How do I know that after a year I’d be
freed?”
He seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.
“Are you used to receiving shocked answers to your question?” I whispered.
“Yes,” he replied curtly. “Though we do get our share of volunteers. I can draw up the papers for your
solicitor. In fact, we will pay for his fees and he need only know that you are doing work for a contract
of some nature.”
His voice was hushed now, serious, as if he knew that he had hooked a fish with his bait.
“Your point of release in twelve months will be decided and recorded. The money will be placed in
your account upon your agreement. Of course, at that stage, there is no turning back. You row for a
year then, one way or another.”
The words were rehearsed, familiar to him.
“One way or another?” I said.
“If you decide to change your mind a month in, the overseers are not going to simply say ‘yes of
course’, you understand?”
“Overseers. The ones with the whips?”
“Yes.”
“And if I do, change my mind, as you say?”
“There is no choice,” he replied sharply. “You will be forced to row on, until the end of your contract.”
“Forced?”
“Yes. As a slave would have been on a galley ship.”
His eyes indicated how serious he was. I found the whole conversation intense now, as if I had been
waiting for an opportunity like this. But to be whipped, effectively a slave on a galley in modern times?
Sure, I might never need to work again, but at what cost?
“I still have questions,” I whispered, feeling isolated and alone, despite the number of people in the
room. I raised my head to check that they weren’t all watching us. I caught a glimpse of Jennifer
staring. She looked away as she saw me. Was she in on this? Did she know this man and the fact that
he was recruiting for a slave galley? My heart was pounding.
“Of course you do. You are wondering whether the marking of the lash will be permanent. You are
wondering whether, if it is, you will be able to live with those marks and whether the amount of money
makes it worthwhile.”
I nodded. “How…how did you know?”
“Because that is what all attractive women wonder. But, you are strong.”
He sipped his wine before continuing.
“Most of the work will require strong thighs and shoulders. You have both from your chosen sport,
which is fortunate. The lash is used to keep rhythm and punish infraction. The overseers use the whip
without mercy upon the back and breasts or thighs.”
He pointed at my legs as if to illustrate his point. I stepped back slightly in response, as if his words
could bring me stinging pain. I was sweating a little, in fear? or was I excited at the prospect of this
perversion?
“As to whether you might bear marks upon completion of your contract? Probably. These would fade
with time however. Much would depend on your stamina and obedience. I feel that you, might be
defiant, a problem for the overseers, no?”
“I…For that sort of money, I might be compliant.” I tried to smile. It wasn’t convincing.
“Indeed,” he snorted, a cruel grimace wrinkling his features as he continued to stare.
As he talked, part of me felt that I had been waiting for this chance. It was a challenge. Despite the
erotic illusion that appeared to have opened up in my brain like a tidal wave however, the sensible side
was telling me that I would be chained and whipped. What the hell was I even considering this for,
despite the vast sum of money? As if reading my thoughts, he passed me a business card, before
walking away.
***
For days after the party I found it difficult to get the conversation out of my head. I dreamt of rowing,
on a crowded galley of sweating women. So much so that I rented the Ben Hur movie, watching it and
imagining how difficult the work might be. A million pounds. It was enough cash to ensure that I never
need worry about money again. Joshua had left me his card. It had a simple business style, giving little
indication that he worked for a pervert who used prisoners and volunteers to row a galley in some
isolated area of the Med. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. So much
money.
I had another appointment with the unemployment office coming up, I had bills to pay and it seemed
that coaches and colleagues from my days as a triathlete were taking little interest in a ‘has been’
whose injury had put paid to their career. I spoke to Jennifer, in hushed tones, trying to find out if she
had, in fact, known anything about this Joshua fellow and the work that he actually did. If she did know
anything, she made a good job of hiding it. She had known him through a business colleague and was
aware only that he had employed ex athletes, she assumed, for coaching jobs. I hadn’t had the courage
to tell her what he really did.
A week passed. The sensible part of me was saying that I was crazy to even consider the offer. How
did I even know that the contract would be honoured? I’d be naked, in chains and being whipped for a
year. Was I really going to be able to fight back if they said I had to stay a while longer? Despite these
thoughts, the challenge and the image of me rowing hard, showing them all what I could do, would not
go away. It intruded my daily routine, my morning runs, my dinner, my conversations with people. I
thought about the labour, the constant gnawing work, the prisoners and how terrible the conditions
might be and of course, the money.
I wasn’t having any luck getting a job. Coaching seemed to be out, I wasn’t experienced enough.
Interviewers for office jobs took one look at me and guessed that I wouldn’t fit into an office position.
Even working in a factory seemed out. I was considered overqualified, told that the work would not
fulfil me? Did that mean that rowing like a slave on a vile prison ship would? I was beginning to doubt
myself, doubt what my mind was telling me, doubt whether I would actually regret making enough
money so that I might never have to work again. All for a year of my life? A year where I would show
them how powerful an athlete I was? How difficult could it be, with mostly prisoners? They couldn’t
fail but be impressed by me.
***
The interview had been one of the worst. They had even insulted me, leaving me with the impression
that I shouldn’t have applied for their damned job. So why had they asked me to come in? Did they
think that public transport cost nothing? I was so angry. Angry enough to call Joshua.
The card was soggy when I pulled it from my pocket. I remember that it was raining when I phoned. I
let the water drench my hair, not caring that it dripped down my back or soaked my trousers and coat. I
walked slowly to the bus stop, letting the tone ring.
“Hello?”
“Joshua?”
“Yes.” The tone was dignified and official.
“It’s…It’s Justine, from the party. A while back?”
There was a pause. I could almost hear his mind working.
“Ah yes. The triathlete.”
“Yes,” I replied, suddenly wondering how he knew, I had only mentioned that I was an athlete of some
kind.
“How’s the knee?”
“It’s…better, better now.” And he knew about my injury.
“So, it can cope with the pull of the oar, your legs pushing against the wood at your feet, keeping pace
with the drum, despite the stroke of the lash across your naked back, thighs, even breasts?”
I gasped. He heard it.
“You are having second thoughts?”
“I haven’t even asked or agreed for that matter?”
“But you did call me Justine. You did call.”
His voice was low, serious.
“You knew I’d call, didn’t you?” I said slowly, finally understanding that he must have known all
along. I felt the rain soak me. I didn’t care any more.
“I knew from the moment I saw you Justine. You want to row. You see it as a challenge and the
seriousness of your impending situation is diluted by the fact that you need never worry about money,
for a long time afterward. But I want to hear you say that you want to be a galley slave.”
“What?” I replied.
“Say it.”
The rain got heavier. I looked around. People ran for the bus that had just arrived. The one that I
needed to get. Instead I stood still, watching them. Cars drove past, horns blaring for no good reason.
People rushed by, ignoring each other, hurrying in the rain, and for what? I had worked hard to achieve
a dream and now I was on the scrapheap of ex average athletes. No one cared; not colleagues, coaches,
friends. Was I doomed to live alone, looking for a dead end job for the rest of my life?
“I want to be a galley slave,” I said slowly.
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