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me with their thin bamboo canes. I have already endured those horrors alongside my unseen neighbours. It’s as if I can feel as well as hear their punishment. But my minders are depriving me even of the sensation of pain. Instead they’ve removed gruel from the menu. And, as gruel was the only thing on that menu, I am now surviving on an occasional cup of water. And my sense of smell tells me what they’ve done to that water. But, didn’t fakirs in India drink their own…?
    “ Sustain, Siri. Take whatever they give you for sustenance .”
    When the lights were still burning I was able to add the modest nutrition of cockroaches to my cocktail. Steve McQueen taught me that trick . Papillon.
    “ Your time will come soon enough, Siri,” Steve tells me. “Your opportunity to die heroically. Take down six of the blackguards with you as you fight for your life .”
    Perforated postage stamps with my face peering out. Primary school textbooks telling of the day Siri took down twelve, no, fifteen armed guards as he fought for his freedom. Siri the hero. A band around his head. “Fifteen in one blow.” The year 2010. “Yes, my grandfather knew Dr Siri Paiboun. He massacred entire armies with his bare hands. They finally finished him with a poisoned épée through the heart. It was the only way you could bring down a Siri .”
    I have been catching myself more frequently engaged in such prattle, but I can only blame that Siri fellow. No self-control. Showing weakness. I’m open to attack. My protection against the phibob is gone but they haven’t yet come. They haven’t begun to torment me into harming myself, or stopped my heart from beating as they do to the day labourers in their sleep. Busy, no doubt, troubling the souls of all those who are dying in this school building. This rotten school building .
    “ A school? Surely a school is a place for growing…for acquiring. Surely a school should be a step forward, not a step back. A place for giving life a kick-start, a push, a roll. Surely a school shouldn’t be the last place you see in your life? ”
    “ I was a teacher,” the smiley man said in his neat but unexpressive French .
    Surely not here. Surely not in this ‘end of everything’ high school .
    “ I learned more as a teacher than I ever did as a pupil,” he said. “I learned that students need guidance and sometimes that guidance has to be cruel in order for it to be effective .”
    “ I’m not your student,” I told him. “I’m your superior .”
    Yes, I’m the grand emperor of knowing when to keep my independent mouth shut .
    “ If that’s true,” said the man. “Why are you in chains while I am free to walk out? ”
    “ Because you’re a despot,” I told him, “and despots act out of panic. History shows us that a tyrant’s reign is short because it’s conducted in an atmosphere of fear. You’ll always be looking over your shoulder. You’ll always make mistakes. Despots invariably end up with a burning poker up their rear ends .”
    The smile on the face of the smiling man sagged momentarily. Then, from the cloth bag over his shoulder he produced another sheet of paper and another pencil. He held them out to me .
    “ My student,” he said, “you would be surprised how few people in here get a second chance. But I believe that even the most naive student wouldn’t fail to learn from a mistake. And so I am giving you a second chance. If you get it right this time it will make your passage to freedom very simple. I can even give you the answers to your examination questions and you can walk from the room with a degree and honours .”
    I had to laugh at that. I said, “Great master, tell me the answers. Show me the light .”
    The last of the unconvincing compassion drained from the man’s eyes .
    “ You are a foreigner,” he said. “And we don’t want to involve you in our struggle. All you need to do is write what my superiors want to read and you are free to return to