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Life is cheap, but a promise will always be a promise in Southeast Asia. Thisis Habibah's world, and naive expat Paul just doesn't know the rules. Be careful,be very careful what you say because money is king here. Money at all costs.

The lights dimmed in the visitor centre of Pudu Prison. Whilst the crumblingformer prison awaited demolition, enterprising authorities had opened it upto the paying public. After a tour of godforsaken cells and gallows, a smallcinema showed a rapist tied up to receive twenty-four stokes of the dreadedrotan. The rotan, a two-metre cane used in Singapore and Malaysia to hit thebare buttocks of convicted prisoners, is never a punishment to be taken lightly.The maximum number of strokes is twenty-four, and any more than twelve willalways mean a skin graft.

The noise of the first stroke was deafening. Like everyone else in the smalltheatre, Paul jumped in his seat. Women, with handkerchiefs over their mouths,muffled their screams. The prisoner was less fortunate; his pain-racked criesstill heard over the commotion. Paul turned to Habibah, his Malay girlfriend,sitting there unmoved as the second stroke slashed across the man's buttocks.His hoarse voice roared in Malay, begging Allah for the beating to stop. Twovisitors got up to leave, their children in tears. The strokes were roughlytwice a minute, and Paul knew this was going to be one long macabre show. Numberthree was the loudest so far, an incredible blow. Paul's eardrums throbbed.The man was now shrieking non-stop. His hair was matted with sweat, and Paulcould not believe the agony he must have gone through, whatever his crime.The camera switched to his buttocks. Blood oozed from three jagged gashes.Every women in the cinema screamed, except Habibah who remained placid. Onthe fourth stroke, the man's head whiplashed back to an impoosible angle. Anotherguard came forward to steady his head and stop him breaking his neck. Neverhad Paul heard such noises coming from a human being, and wasn't surprisedwhen the convict passed out on number five. The video was stopped, and a noteflashed across the screen in Malay. Habibah leant over to whisper that theman had fainted, and a doctor had had to revive him before the punishment re-started.

The man looked dazed, his rolling eyes unable to remember where he was. Heglanced up to see thick ropes around his wrists, and his features slumped ashe realised. The short break had not helped, and an almighty number six hadhis lips receding back to the gums in terror. My dear God, thought Paul, onlya quarter of the beating gone. Surely this man could never survive? His heartwould explode long before the guard had finished. Paul's eardrums felt on theverge of bleeding as strike seven sent a shockwave through the prisoner's body,his ample belly still wobbling two seconds later. As number eight smashed home,Paul watched the guard, wondering what sort of a person could carry out suchbrutality. The prisoner was begging for mercy, his life even, but the blowscontinued to rain down on his tattered buttocks. After stroke ten, the manhad stopped shaking but continued to howl like a wolf with a leg crushed insome cruel trap. The guard was now exhausted and he had to stop for a break.As he did, another shot of the man's buttocks showed an unrecognisable messof blood and gored flesh.

"Let's go", Paul ordered.

Habibah didn't even turn. "Shhh!"

Paul stood up to leave. Only four men, and Habibah, remained. Outside in thetropical sun, Paul was shaking. His ears were ringing from the noise, and hewas amazed to find himself in shock from that barbaric video. He checked hiswatch. Ten minutes had passed. That terrifying beating was still going on.Paul was imagining the man when it was all over, his lifeless body being draggedto an ambulance, when he heard half-hearted applause from the theatre. At longlast, the smiling Habibah came out to join him.

"It's OK", she said, "I understand".

In Paul's Jeep, Habibah explained that the rapist had lost face by cryingand, even worse, pleading for mercy. She had read that most prisoners are ableto keep reasonably quiet and accept their whipping like men. She admired theguard who could discipline such an evil rapist without mercy. Then, she wishedshe were a man and have the job of steadying the prisoners' heads. She wouldlook into their terror-filled eyes and watch them endure horrific, yet deserved,suffering. Paul was feeling more and more uneasy at Habibah's commentary. Hedidn't want to even think about the caning, much less discuss it. Habibah,though, was on a roll, and her next comment had him hard on the brakes.

"Paul, how many strokes do you think you could stand without screaming?"

Habibah did have some funny quirks which Paul put down to culture difference,but this was the weirdest so far.

"About as many as you!" Paul joked hoping to change topic damn fast.But Habibah's smile faded to a frown. Paul looked over, surprised to see hernormally soft face so hard and cruel.

"Men over fifty and women are exempted from caning, Paul"

Habibah was Malay-Chinese and quite unlike any other girl Paul had met. Notthat there were many. Her features were classic Chinese but with rounder eyesand the darker skin of a Malay. She was just over five feet tall, and her longsilky black hair and curvy figure opened many doors. He was very average-looking,and at twenty-five, had had zero luck with women back in England. His postingto Malaysia was a real eye-opener. He lived in a huge house, drove a Jeep Cherokeeand always felt proud when others gaped at his girlfriend. Whenever, Habibahstepped out of her condo complex and into his Jeep, he knew he was one luckyguy. In England, he had few friends and no family. He lived alone in his lateparent's house. Before his two-year contract was up, he would find a job inMalaysia, and never return to England. He had never thought about marriage.How could he, never having had a real girlfriend? But, he was starting to believeHabibah was the one. They kissed a lot, but had never slept together. Paulunderstood that Habibah, as a muslim, forbade pre-marital sex. He would alsohave to convert to Islam, say goodbye to beer and worst of all in his mind,be circumcised. A small price to pay for a life with Habibah.

"Paul, do you love me?"

They were in a downtown KL Starbucks. Paul was reading an English newspaperand did not hear.

"Paul", she said an octave higher, poking his broadsheet. "Doyou love me?"

"More than life. You know I do." He said it every time he met her,but hesitated for a split second. He could not recall her ever saying it.

"And you'd do anything for me?" Her face was smiling, but the cruellook was back as that word came out: "Convert?"

That old chestnut was back. If she loved him, what difference did it makeif he became a muslim? After all, she never prayed and did few of the thingsmuslims should. He dared not risk losing her, however, so kept his thoughtshidden.

"Yes."

"And the operation?"

Paul threw his paper down. Circumcision horrified him, and he point-blankrefused to even talk about it. He would perform all the commitments of a goodmuslim, but on that operation, he was adamant.

"OK. You know what? Let's talk in your car."

Paul opened the passenger door of his Jeep. In Starbucks windows, Paul couldsee a few locals eyeing Habibah's legs as she climbed into his car. He wasmore than lucky, and as he waited for a gap in the traffic, he knew Habibahcould find another rich expat boyfriend in the flash of an eye.

"You will forget all about me when you go back to England."

Habibah had taken the direct approach, but her tone was sorrowful. It saddenedPaul to hear her so down, and he caressed her knee.

"Never."http://education.yahoo.com/reference/thesaurus/entry/never-ending

"Well, you show no commitment to me." She was looking past him intoa Chinese shop house selling bike parts. "You won't have a circumcisionoperation, that's OK. But I expect a show, a sign, to show you are serious."

Paul knew a stronger man would know what to do. He had already waited toolong to make a gesture of his love. But, he was weak and once again, let Habibahtake the initiative.

"How?"

"Paul", she faced him, her face now a mask of seriousness. "Ineed to test you. Do you want to hear?"

No test would be too hard for Habibah's love. He listened on.

"I want you to take a caning, like the video."

Paul waited for Habibah's face to soften into a smile, another of her games. "Twenty-four?That man was a rapist. I've never hurt anyone."

"I know. That's why I only want to see you take five or six. I can arrangeit."

He had no doubt she could arrange it; she knew a lot of people in the city.He had visions of Habibah in her little red dress sitting alone in a viewinggallery with her legs crossed as they tied his arms and legs. Maybe she toowould wear earplugs as she held his head to see him take his beating like aman. But how would he face his future wife after such humiliation? Caning takesmonths of recuperation. His arse would be scarred for life. Habibah was clearlyunstable to suggest such a mad-cap idea. What if she told the guy to carryon after six? Or twelve? Even if they did get married, Paul would have to toughenup, be the decision maker. That time had come.

"No"

"No what, Paul?"

"I love you, but you're crazy to suggest it. Anything, I'll do anythingfor you, but not that." He was empowered now, and Habibah was taken abackat his new courage. Now, she would stop the games, he thought.

"OK, stop."

Paul steered the big Jeep onto the kerb, ready to argue. Habibah never evenlooked at him, or closed the door as she stormed off. In panic, he drove afterher before she disappeared amongst the crowd. He was going to get out and run,run to get his girl back. But, he held back. What would he say? Her temperknew no bounds, and she reverted to shouting in her native Malay in any arguments.The locals always took a protective interest when she cursed him in Malay.He would let her chill out, and call later.

Her mobile rang for days. Sometimes it was engaged, or switched off, but neveranswered. After two days, he ventured out to a ritzy nightclub packed withChinese stunners. Paul was too shy, however, and downed beer after beer astwo Australians chatted up every girl there. But none of them had Habibah'swarmness. Paul imagined at home in tears, missing him, but too proud to call.He was not proud, though. He had to make that gesture.

Habibah's condo was in north KL. It was a modern apartment block, and he hadnever stood at her door before, let alone gone inside. He had only ever watchedher coming out, and it took three attempts to find her block. With no numberson doors, he resorted to checking out the shoes in the corridors to find Habibah'sapartment. There was music and sounds of fun inside. A good sign. He squatteddown to see Habibah's plain blue shoes, so small and cute. There were the strappyhigh heels he had bought six days after they had met. He nearly wept the firsttime she wore them. They made her taller, slimmer and, in Paul's eyes, a goddess.He started unlacing his Timberlands when he saw another pair of shoes. A man's.He listened at the door. He could hear laughter and Habibah's voice in Englishand Malay, and then an Australasian, a male's voice. His heart plunged in hischest cavity. She was not missing him. He knew she could have any expat shewanted, but as his sweaty hand wiped away tears, he realised this one had beeninvited into her apartment. He would have loved an invitation. Just to seewhere the woman he loved lived, ate breakfast and slept would have been heavenly.But, unlike the Australasian newcomer, he had never made the grade. The roadhome was blurred through his tears, and he finally had to pull over and lethimself go. His dreams in pieces. Habibah had gone.

Two months of sitting in bars lasted an eternity. He had been to their oldhaunts, but she was nowhere to be seen. The way Habibah had laughed with him,just didn't happen with the Chinese girls he approached. He would phone hermobile, more to give the impression he had friends rather than think she mightanswer. Every bar had expats and locals having a great time. A few expat-localcouples would stare out of restaurant windows at the solitary figure. He searchedout bars that were not too full, with TV screens or newspapers so he did nothave to stare at any more people having fun. Over another unwanted beer, heknew his loneliness had never gone so low. His wretched existence in Englandwas better than this charade. His only consolation was the Australasian wouldprobably have to go through a Habibah trial too. Would it be converting toIslam? Maybe Habibah knew caning terrified Paul, but the mystery man wouldhave a different phobia to conquer. Yes, his unseen rival must have had a challenge,and until he had completed it, Paul still had a chance.

For two hours, he stared at the text message. "Sorry, I love u".Should he abbreviate the last word? Would Habibah think it cool or just morelaziness? His first draft was a whole paragraph of reasons imploring Habibahto listen. He no longer cared about the caning. He would do anything to hearher voice again. Right, he would send the short message. If she did not replyby tomorrow, he would pack in his job and return to the UK. His thumb hoveredover the send button. What was there to lose? He imagined the Australasiangetting to the text first, only to delete it. Selfish bastard, denying Habibaha loving husband. To be sure, Paul would send a message now and another thenext day. He had not phoned her number for weeks, so had no idea if the textwould work. He closed his eyes and pressed. An icon spun on the phone's display- the text was on its way. It vanished and the words appeared - Message sent.

Paul sat back drained. He imagined Habibah deleting his message without openingit. An Australasian with a wry smile had probably read his feeble words. Thistime next week, he would back in England anyway. He reached for the remote.A news report was just finishing, and the ever-present BBC World music blaredout. An unfamiliar beeping sound joined the tune. His phone! Paul lunged forthe mobile, his hands shaking as he fumbled for the buttons. You have one newmessage: Habibah. Her reply was brief, mis-typed, but clear and chilling: cning?Without a seconds hesitation, he started texting back only for his phone tostart ringing. It was her!

"Well, Paul?" Her voice was cold and impatient.

"Yes, I'll do it." He wiped his palms against his jeans. "Whatdo I have to do?"

"Oh, Paul." His heart warmed as he heard the smile in her voice. "Youdon't know what this means. I missed you so much! Can you pick me up tonight?"

Paul parked at the condo entrance for the usual wait. This time, however,for the first time ever, she was already there. She had a huge smile and lookedso special that Paul knew he had been right to be so patient. In all the surprise,he had to rush out to open the passenger door in time. In full view of thesecurity guards, Habibah planted a loving kiss on Paul's cheek, and climbedinto the Jeep. As they headed downtown, she could see he was nervous and resteda hand on his thigh. Paul had learnt enough not to rush things. Neither thecaning nor the Australasian would be up for debate. They had to take it onestep at a time and rebuild their relationship.

Paul's Malaysian colleagues were delighted by his new enthusiasm. They hadcomplained to London about his punctuality and rolling up at work reeking ofcigarettes and alcohol. But now, he was arriving first at work. He dressedwell, and had become by far the brightest spark there. His rapid disappearanceat the stroke of five each night raised a few murmurs, but with such efficiency,who cared?

He was rushing home to be with Habibah who had moved in four weeks before.They made a great couple and Paul never believed anyone could feel so happy.Paul knew Habibah well and, like any other couple, knew when she was down andmade allowances. There were nights out at romantic restaurants, but Paul washappy to rush home, get showered and changed , and just be with her. He becamestronger, more assertive, and was able to make decisions for both of them.She accepted his proposal of marriage in a second, hugging and kissing himwith more passion than ever. They shared the same bed, but until the big day,sex would have to wait. Wedding plans dominated all conversations. Paul spokeno Malay whatsoever, leaving Habibah to make most of the arrangements. Theywent to open a joint bank account which soon filled up with Paul's chunky expatsalary, plus a 400 pound monthly payment from his parent's estate. It was goingto be a great wedding.

A London-based manager was in that week, so Paul phoned Habibah to say hewould be late. She knew Paul was busy at work, so had no complaints. She wouldgo out for dinner alone, maybe to a Nasi Goreng stall. It made Paul smile.Habibah could be as sophisticated as anyone, but was happy eating food fitfor a coolie. It only made her more endearing as he imagined her alone at theroadside with her rice. Paul eventually got home at about 8pm. Habibah wasstill out. He changed into his scruffy lounging gear and cracked open a beer.It had been a long long day, and the beer went down in one. As he opened thefridge for another, the phone rang. Who else could it be?

"Paul, please come here." She sounded distraught.

"What's wrong, baby?" Paul was horrified to think his love was indistress.

"I can't talk. I am near Brickfields, near the Jalan Rota police station.Please come now."

She hung up. Her mobile was dead. Shit. He slid into his flip flops and ranto the Jeep. The KL traffic was at its usual worst, but Paul's Jeep was bigger,and with horns blaring, stubborn drivers moved to let him pass. He knew Brickfields,but where was that police station? She had only gone for food. Why was shehere on the other side of town? He saw the blue concrete office block and swunghis Jeep into the side road. There she was in his headlights, but looking away,expecting him to approach from the main road. She was wearing that tight reddress and strappy heels that he had bought. Thank God she was OK.

Paul's Jeep stopped further down the street. Parking outside was asking fortrouble in an expat Jeep. He got out and approached Habibah. What was up? Whywas she looking away?

"Hi. Are you OK?"

She spun round, surprised to see him. Her look of shock was replaced by thehard stare, no emotion. She grabbed his scruffy t-shirt and thrust her kneeup into his groin. He was wearing soft shorts and no underwear and doubledin agony as Habibah's knee squashed his testicles. She gripped him again andraised her knee. This time Paul was ready, cupping his hands over his damagedballs. Her face screwed up, however, and she smashed a heel down into his unprotectedfoot. At least two of Paul's metatarsals smashed, and he collapsed holdinghis foot and balls. Habibah ran off towards the guardhouse. She was gone fora minute when Paul's alarm bells rang telling him to get the hell out of there.He got to his feet, but an electric shock shot through his body as his footwound opened. Both flip flops came off. He was limping terribly, and withinten yards he heard footsteps closing in. Someone had grabbed his sleeve. Itwas Habibah. Even in her heels, she had caught up with Paul and his shatteredfoot, and was now dragging him back to the police. She was shouting in Malayto two policeman, one with handcuffs. A passing car illuminated Habibah andPaul saw, with horror, her smudged make-up and ripped dress. Not only was herdress torn, but her bra cup was dislodged leaving her right breast exposed.She stepped back to let the policemen bundle Paul to the floor. One policemanyanked Paul's arms behind, and he winced as the handcuffs pinched. They pulledPaul to his feet. Putting any weight on his injured foot was futile and asone of the officers led him inside, he had to hop to stay upright. Habibahwalked in front of them, clutching her dress together.

With a kick, Paul's body smashed onto the floor of a dark cell. The steeldoor creaked and then slammed behind him. He struggled to his feet. His shouldernow ached where he had landed, still handcuffed. He could not even massagehis foot or balls. Some of KL's city light filtered in through the rusty bars.The cell stunk of faeces and urine. He lay down on the concrete floor, butjumped up as a huge cockroach ran down his forearm. He dreaded what horrorsthe cell contained. Like most westerners, cockroaches disgusted him. To drownout thoughts of creatures sharing his cell, he stood and looked through thehigh bars to the skyscrapers beyond. He could hear distant traffic and trains.On the main road, a group of girls sped by screaming and laughing at pedestrians.What was with Habibah now? Paul was going to get very firm with her when thislatest game was over.

He had fallen asleep bunched-up against a wall, and woke to the early-morningtropical sun burning through the bars. The cell was horrendous. No bed, notoilet, just concrete. The floor and walls were smeared with faeces. An armyof cockroaches went about their business oblivious to Paul's bare feet stampingthem away. Paul heard voices outside and then some doors opening. An unsmilingpolicemen with a hairy mole on one cheek appeared at Paul's door and threwa pair of leg chains. With presumably no English, the man gestured. Paul didnot understand. How could he put on leg irons? He was still handcuffed forGod's sake. Two more men appeared, and Paul knew he had better put the chainson. He squatted and brought back his legs, yelping when his foot wound scrapedthe floor, and somehow shut the leg irons around his ankles. They then draggedhim to a truck where six local men, also in chains, stared at him. Paul hadno idea where they were going, but as he watched the familiar city pass by,he knew Habibah would be back when she got bored.

Paul recognised the old colonial building as a court. Members of the publicand a family of tourists sat by the grassed square opposite. In full view ofthem, Paul and the six men were led out. He struggled up the courthouse stepswith his foot further hindered by the chains. With the others, Paul was leddown some concrete steps and locked in a windowless cell. At least there wasa toilet and, in front of his cell-mates, Paul sat and relieved himself fromthe beer just the night before. The cell soon became sweltering as the outsideair temperature rose. What felt like hours in their sweaty prison passed beforea guard brought in some bags of rice. He spoke good English and explained toPaul that they were from the prisoners' families. He had no visitors so wouldhave to wait. Paul was getting weak with hunger before the door opened again.It was now dark outside, and Paul guessed they had been shut in that cell forat least twelve hours. He hopped to the truck, and ended up locked back inhis cell.

Next morning, he could not believe Habibah's game was still going. He hadeaten nothing for forty-eight hours. No one spoke English, so he could notask about his rights, if he had any. So, it was an enormous relief when hewas led to a meeting room to wait for a visitor. Habibah would appear withfood, some clothes and a smile. They would laugh about this one day. But Habibahnever came. Instead, a sweating man, a westerner in a light grey suit walkedin. He tossed over some pre-packed sandwiches.

"Harvey Roberts, British Embassy Rep. How are you, Paul?"

Habibah might have friends with influence, but this latest chapter finallystruck it home. Not even she could not get a westerner into a police station.This man was real. He was in deep shit.

"What's going on?" Paul's voice was weak.

"Let me see." He put on reading glasses. "This is a reportin Malay. You are charged with sexually assaulting a female, name withheld,at 9.15pm two days ago."

"That's my girlfriend. We're getting married!" Paul was frantic.This had to be a huge cock up. Roberts looked back at the bare-footed Paulwith half a smile.

"Well, I'm afraid she's pressed charges."

He sounded so matter-of-fact that Paul wanted to whack him. This was the womenhe loved, would be marrying, and this idiot reckoned Habibah had pressed charges.

"Look, Paul. Here are some leaflets." He reached round and placedthem in Paul's cuffed hands. "They explain your rights. Don't worry nowas none of it applies yet. We can't interfere in another country's legal system,but we can make sure you're fairly treated."

Paul's scrotum tightened as he realised this man would be no help. "Whencan you help then?"

"Upon conviction, we may offer an appeal for leniency if a sentence isconsidered excessive. That's all we can do."

Conviction? Paul had not done anything wrong. He barely heard Roberts's nextoffering.

"The good news is, you could be out in fourteen days as Malaysia's legalsystem is extremely fast. I'll be back next week"

With that, Roberts looked at his watch and was gone. Paul realised he wasin a nightmare, the type you read about in tabloid newspapers. Another westernerrotting in an Asian prison whilst aging parents protest their innocence. ButPaul's parents were dead. He was glad, in a way. He had a sick feeling in hisgut, and the one small mercy was that his parents would be spared the heartache.

Seven more days passed in the filthy cell. Roberts never returned. Paul hadto take out and throw away his contact lenses which by then were burning hiseyes. A kindly guard, realising Paul had no money or family, brought him riceand fish in banana leaves twice a day. Although Paul knew this was no longera Habibah game, he believed she would turn up and drop the charges. He doubtednow if they could get back together. He loved her dearly, but her temper wasout of control. Once this farce ended, he would be back in England. His homecountry seemed so much more inviting. On day ten, the smiling guard broughthis rice and added, in broken English, that Paul's trial would be in two days.Habibah had not dropped charges. He lay on the stinking floor and broke down,a defeated man going to hell.

Alone in the truck, Paul knew where he was heading. After two weeks in thatdingy cell, the tropical sun felt like fire in his eyes. He squinted at thisbeautiful country, the country he had come to love, and realised he may notbe seeing such views for a long time. The grassed square was as packed as everwith tourists and locals. A small crowd had gathered at the court steps. Afew were westerners and Paul, without his contact lenses, just recognised theBBC logo on a camera. As he approached, the crowd separated to let Paul through.A cameras flashed, then another. Shit! He was the news. He had been livingin faeces for a fortnight without seeing a drop of water. Entering the colonialbuilding, he felt appalled, degraded, to think of his disgusting appearancesplashed across every newspaper in Britain.

The courtroom was just about the oldest, most-decrepit room Paul had everseen. Two ancient ceiling fans rumbled on, no match for the Malaysian sun.A huge clock adorned with roman numerals, no doubt left by the British, tickedon. Paul was sat on a small wooden chair in the middle of the court. Throughblurred eyes, he could make out some policemen and a woman in a tudung, thecloth to cover the heads of muslim women, sat at benches on a far wall. A publicgallery occupied the wall on Paul's left. The bored silence was broken by apoliceman's laugh as his colleague cracked jokes. The laughter faded, the twouseless fans took over. So, Malaysian justice was quick, thought Paul as theold clock counted the seconds. He wanted to ask for the toilet, but a woman'svoice shouted out in Malay, and all stood as the elderly Malay judge strolledin.

The judge's opening speech was in Malay, his monotone voice meaningless toPaul. It lasted about forty-five minutes, Paul reckoned. One of the policemenstarted to speak, and Paul realised he was answering the judge's questions.With a lot of shouting and pointing at Paul, he was obviously one of the arrestingofficers. Mixed in with the strange language, Paul heard Habibah's name manytimes, but he still had not seen her. Where was she? Then, with a waveringvoice, she spoke. His jaw fell. Shit! She was the woman in the tudung. Shestood up to project her now weak voice. She coughed and spluttered her waythrough her Malay words, and on two occasions, loud tutting came from the publicgallery. Paul saw Habibah place both hands on her breasts. Gasps came fromthe public gallery who turned to look back at Paul. Habibah kept stopping,to sob and sniff, and the judge stopped proceedings, allowing her to get composed.Surely, the policemen saw the way she was dressed that night and realise thisis one big act? As the crowd rose, Paul feared the worst.

Paul was led to a cell and fed some cold rice. He thought about Habibah whohad probably never worn a tudung before. Other Malay women in that courtroomhad uncovered heads, so it was not some court requirement. When would theyask him questions? He could tell all about Habibah, where she lived, all herdetails, to prove she knew him. He thought of a strategy. Be calm. Do not shout,just calmly tell the truth. After all, Paul's disheveled look did him no favours,so he could try and speak well. And who knew? This could offer a springboardto his new life in England. Newspapers would snap us his story. He could writea bit, so a book might be in the offing. Fame, fortune and, last but not least,revenge. Habibah would be named and shamed, hopefully arrested to spend timein a cell. Let us see how those legs look in chains. The judge must be a reasonableman who would listen to Paul. If he played it cool, it would work out well.Paul was still planning his answers when he was led back to the courtroom.

"Paul Michael Dixon from England?" Thank God the judge spoke goodEnglish.

"Yes. Yes Sir."

"You are found guilty of outraging the modesty of Habibah Mohd Aziz,on 12 June, which is against the Penal Code 22F. This is not tolerated in Malaysia,whether committed by Malaysians or foreigners. You shall receive ten strokesof the rotan."

Oh Christ! Habibah and her caning. What relief. He could take his caning andcarry on with her. Well, my love, you got your wish, but things might haveto change now.

"In addition, you shall serve fifteen years in prison. At the end ofyour sentence, you will be deported and barred from entering Malaysia again."

The plane had sat delayed on the runway for three hours, but at least theywere nearly underway. They needed this break so much, and what better way tospend your fifth wedding anniversary than in Sydney with Chris's family? Habibahwas relieved the monthly 400 pounds would come through that week as it wouldbe an expensive trip. So afraid of flying, she held Chris's hand. A stewardess,in a last-ditch effort to pacify irate passengers, handed out free newspapersand magazines.

"Newspaper, Ma'am, Sir?"

Habibah was too nervous to read, but as Chris had taken a magazine, she openedthe paper. She flicked through it once before going back to read an Australianstory. There was a small picture of a westerner on page nine. There it was.Such an anti-climax, though. The story she had wanted to see for two years.

BRIT WHIPPED DESPITE UK PROTESTS

Paul Michael Dixon, serving fifteen years for outraging a woman's modesty,finally received his ten stroke caning yesterday, twenty-four months afterbeing sentenced. The caning finally went ahead despite requests for leniencyfrom the British Foreign Office, who claim he has shown extreme remorse forhis victim ....

Chris smiled at his wife. "Anything interesting?"

"Not really. Let's enjoy the flight."