Free Unseemly Science by Rod Duncan Page A

freshness of the air. There was birdsong and soft light. And then I saw the men walking away in a line towards one of the huts. The left ankle of each had been shackled. Each leg iron was linked to a long chain which they carried between them.
    “Left arm out,” a constable said to Tulip.
    She obeyed, meekly. He snapped a shackle around her wrist, shut it tight, tested it then gestured her along and turned to me.
    “Left arm out.”

    There is a technique used by the escapists, whereby they flex their muscles and inhale deeply as they are tied. When they later breathe out and relax they can wriggle free, because the chains and ropes have fallen loose. But the wrist is bone and sinew. There is nothing to flex.
    The constable grabbed my arm and snapped the manacle in place. I felt the iron grip. Then he shoved me in the back and I found myself stumbling towards Tulip.
    Behind me, he instructed the next in line. “Left arm out.”
    Each of our manacles was connected by a short length of chain to an iron ring, through which a longer chain had been threaded, linking all together, just as the men had been. Except that they had been joined by the ankle.
    Tulip leaned close to whisper. “Too shy to tell us to raise our skirts?”
    “They’re Republicans,” I reminded her.
    The constable folded the list of names and stood back to survey the line. “Lift the chain!” he called.
    After a moment’s confusion we had each gripped part of the length with our manacled hand and were being led over the grass towards a hut some distance from the one the men had entered. The young girl was crying. Not able to lift the chain, she let it drag along the ground next to her.
    The constable counted us in through the door of the hut, though it seemed unlikely that any could have wandered off since being shackled. An iron ball had been padlocked to both the front and back of the long chain, too big for our manacle rings to pass over. But once we were inside the hut, the ends were also locked to ring-bolts in the floor.
    “Food will be served before sunset, courtesy of the Council of Guardians. I suggest you wash and make yourselves comfortable.” So saying, he closed the door. I tried to listen for the sound of a lock or bolt being shot, but everyone was suddenly talking at once and I had no chance to hear.
    There were ten of us on the chain, including the two children, but only nine beds along the wall of the hut. A pot- bellied stove stood on a rectangle of slate, the chimney pipe heading straight up through the roof. Jugs and bowls for washing had been placed together with chamber pots in the corner of the room. The windows were not barred. Chain and ring bolts notwithstanding, this place had been built for some other purpose.
    Somehow we arranged ourselves along the room and everyone moved as one towards the beds. The poor mother and her youngest child were obliged to squeeze together furthest from the door. The rest of us had a bed each, though the chain allowed comfort to none. It could either lie heavily across the chest, or uncomfortably under the body. In this, the men would have an easier time. Had it been attached to our ankles it could have lain on the floor along the foot of the beds.
    “We could turn around,” I said, reasoning that if our heads were at the bottom of the bed, we too could lay the chain along the floor. No one else seemed convinced of my idea.
    “Listen,” said Tulip. A notice was pinned to the wall next to her bed. She read out the title: “Rules for patients.” Below was a long list, with some words and phrases underlined. I scanned the regulations for clues.

    5. No tobacco – chewing, smoking or snuff.
    6. No spitting.
    7. Name badges to be worn at all times .
    8. Opium to be administered by medical staff only .

    “Then it’s a hospital,” said Tulip.
    “Not a hospital,” said the woman with the children. “A sanatorium.”
    Tulip shifted around, making the chain clank against the iron bed