This is a fictional story depicting images of violence, rape and 
torture. Don't read if these are likely to offend, or if you are not an 
adult. Although this story is loosely based upon the notorious Villa 
Grimaldi in Santiago, Chile, remember, the story is fiction.


A Red Hot Chile
by Grim Williams

Copyright 2000. All rights reserved.


Part Two



"What's your name?"

She scowled. "You know my name."

"Of course I know your name," I answered patiently. "But this was your 
idea, remember. You wanted to know what happens to women inside the 
Grimaldi, exactly what I do with them. This is where it begins, in 
reception. I need your details for the files."

"I see."

"So tell me, what is your name, my pet?"

She spoke confidently, looking me in the eye. "Francesca Rodriguez."

I winced, my pen hovering where her name was to go.

"No, my Chiquita. That won't do. It won't do at all. I need your maiden 
name. If it's seen that our names are the same, then someone is bound 
to suspect."

She sighed. I think she still thought this a cruel game and that I was 
toying with her. Nevertheless, conscious of her part, she played along 
for now. "Francesca Fuella."

Her long blonde hair had become somewhat disheveled since I had last 
seen her. She'd been roughed up a little on the journey: I'd lay odds 
on it. There are very few perks open to a young police officer serving 
in Chile, but this was one of them. 

Some fondling of the breasts, a quick hand job: it's all within the job 
description of your average police officer. His superiors will wink and 
turn a blind eye. This is Santiago, my friend, what can you expect? 
This is Chile.

After her arrest, my angel had been taken first to the local police 
station, and so I'd arrived at Grimaldi ahead of her. I'd waited in 
reception for almost an hour, waiting in fear, waiting in dread. And 
then it had happened; the little gray van had rolled quietly through 
the menacing wrought-iron gates. It had come to a stop in the middle of 
the prison compound; its engine had died and then two officers had 
bundled her out. It had been such a bittersweet moment when I'd first 
set eyes upon her.

They'd shoved her in, through the large swing doors, with her hands 
cuffed behind her, two men, unshaven and coarse, their uniforms untidy 
and the front of their shirts beer-stained.

I'd rushed up before anyone else could get near. "Good evening, 
officers," I'd said. "I'm Captain Rodriguez. I believe this one is for 
me."

They'd asked me to fill in their forms: that's procedure. Only then 
would they hand her over. But while I'd written, they'd played.

"Give me a kiss," the first one had demanded, hooking his arm round her 
neck and pulling her sweet ruby lips to his own. "Show me how much you 
love me, sweetheart. Show me how much you'll miss me." 

"Please, sir. No. I'm married," my Chiquita had objected, struggling to 
evade him as he'd forced her lips apart and had thrust his long tongue 
into her despairing mouth.

She'd gagged, begun coughing, spluttering.

"Look what I've got here," the second one had bantered, casually 
placing the end of a long bamboo stick under the hem of her skirt.

She'd stepped back, kicking the stick away. 

"I think there's something you're hiding," he'd smirked, sticking the 
bamboo back under her skirt. This time he was helped by the first man 
who took hold of her arms, preventing her from retreating.

"What is it? What are you hiding? What's under your skirt? Let's see, 
shall we?" the second one had grinned, lifting the stick and with it 
her skirt, hiking it first to her knees, and then on, higher and 
higher, lifting her skirt, up her long shapely legs towards her 
panties.

Stop it! Stop! Stop! Stop! They weren't going to stop! I saw it at 
once. They weren't teasing. They were going all the way. They were 
going to humiliate my Chiquita in front the clerical staff and the 
passersby, in front of everyone. They were going to expose what was 
hidden under her dress, her secret, inside her panties.

"Here," I'd growled recklessly, jumping up. "It's done." 

I'd grabbed the form, and frenetically scrawling a signature, had 
thrust it into a hand, any hand, and then pulled my dear wife from out 
of their grasp.

I'd wanted to kill them, to drive a long knife deep into their gullets. 
I'd wanted to wrap my beloved in my arms, to protect and comfort her, 
to tell her that things would be all right now. But I couldn't, because 
I'd known this to be a lie. My Chiquita and I, we tell the truth. We 
promised each other, a long time ago. 

And there was no way that I could protect her from myself.

You see, all the time I'd been yearning for her presence and her 
caress, there was this demon within me rubbing his hands with glee, 
that was glad she was here, in the Grimaldi, that hoped to see her 
writhing in agony, and howling in pain.

Such a dilemma. What should I do?

"Thank you," I murmured, recording her name. "And where do you live, my 
sweet one?" I paused, regurgitating my question, tapping my pen 
haphazardly on the black Formica desk. 

"Again," I added. "I think it best if we don't use our home address. 
Tell me, please, tell me where your parent's live."

She threw me an ugly look, brushing the long hair from off her face. 
You see, her parents don't like me: they say that I'm an agent of the 
Devil. She replied: "Puorto del St Miguel 35. Santiago."

"And you are in good health?"

"As far as I'm aware."

"And you are how old?"

"I will be twenty six in April. On April 19."

My conscience was roasting me alive. I was wrung out with guilt, and 
yet simultaneously, I was consumed with such lust. I wanted both to 
cuddle her and to crucify her. How bizarre! How could I rationalize 
such conflicting emotions?

She sat on the other side of the desk; her body very deliberately 
turned away from me, a vase of shriveled white roses and an unlocked 
pair of handcuffs between us. She had on a knitted sweater. It was 
patterned, one of her favorites. It was short sleeved and with a narrow 
scooped vee at the neck. Like her hair, this also was disheveled. 

Why? What had happened to it? I didn't dare ask.

Had they made her take it off? Had they made her remove it and show 
them her bra? Or had they gone further? 

God, what had they done? Around her neck hung a heavy gold cross that 
she wore for protection. Oh God, please let that have worked, please 
let them not have abused my little one!

If anyone was to hurt her, then it should be me, her husband, no one 
else.

I completed the second round of form filling, signing my own name at 
the bottom. "Thank you, my love," I sighed, closing her file and 
setting it neatly on the desk between us with the flowers and the 
cuffs. "Now you do understand the charge, my Chiquita? You do 
understand why you are here? Let me summarize it for you, so that 
everything is quite clear. You have told me that on March 24, 1975, 
yesterday, you were asked in your capacity as a registered nurse, to 
treat the wounds of a known revolutionary, Manuel Carras. You were 
taken in a taxi from the hospital here is Santiago, to a small village 
where Carras was hiding. Is this correct?"

She nodded. "Yes. He was there with his brother, and his sister, 
Maria."

"Very good. Now when you arrived there you found that he had a bullet 
wound in his leg. He had lost a lot of blood. You were able to clean 
the wound and dress it with a bandage, after which you left, returning 
to the hospital. As far as you are aware, no one had missed you, and so 
you finished your shift normally. Have I missed anything? This is your 
confession, what you told me earlier."

Again she nodded. It was a tired anxious nod. "Yes, that's exactly what 
happened."

I yearned to reach across the table and take her hands, clasping them 
firmly within my own. And yet my muscles were as lead. "Now, as an 
officer of the law," I said softly. "I first have to caution you that 
by aiding a renegade you have acted both illegally and foolishly. You 
leave yourself open to prosecution. This is a serious matter, my love. 
By way of reparation, the state expects you to provide us with a 
complete account of your visit to this village, to tell us everything 
that happened."

"But I have!"

"You haven't, my dear. For instance, you haven't yet told us the name 
of the village. Neither have you told us anything about the two men 
that were responsible for taking you there. Who is this first man that 
asked you to go with him? I'm sure that you know: I don't believe that 
you would leave Santiago in a car with a total stranger. And what about 
the man that drove you? We would also like to know the identity of the 
taxi driver."

She glared at me scornfully. "How can I tell you about the taxi driver? 
He was a taxi driver. That's all I know."

I shook my head sadly. She was too confident; too assured. This is not 
the wise way to be inside the Villa Grimaldi. This is not the way to 
survive. "My dear," I warned. "This is no game. Please. If you make a 
full confession now, providing me with all the information I need to 
satisfy my superiors, then I can arrange for an end to this matter. I 
can have you transferred out of here to a Recovery Center. However, if 
you refuse, then I won't be able to help you. You will be admitted for 
interrogation."

I was pleading with her, begging her to be sensible. And yet, despite 
my best efforts, I just couldn't seem to reach her. "So what happens in 
a Recovery Center?" she asked dryly. "Is that just another excuse to 
assault me?""

At last my arms were freed from their invisible bonds. They shot across 
the table, clutching at her little hands and grasping them tightly. My 
heart was breaking. "Is that what happened, my love? In the van? Is 
that what they did? Please. You must tell me what they did to you?"

"Why?" she cried sarcastically. "Aren't you my tormentor now? Should I 
tell you so that you too might exult in my misfortune? How could I bear 
that, my Captain?"

"Please," I begged, squeezing her slender fingers into my own. "That 
isn't fair, my love. Please. Please tell me what happened."

Suddenly her eyes filled with tears, and there was a twitching in her 
cheek. "It was nothing," she said, working hard to control her voice. 
"I wasn't raped, so you have nothing to fear."

"What then? What happened?"

"Please," she begged. "I'd rather not talk of it right now. Can't you 
see that it's upsetting me? Please, something else. Tell me about the 
Recovery Center."

I was choking as I spoke. "They're prisons, my Chiquita. Nothing but 
ordinary prisons. You have nothing to fear there. We send people to 
Recovery following their interrogation. It's a place where bruises can 
fade and wounds can be cared for. No one can go home until the evidence 
of torture is lost."

She shook her head. Her voice was still unsteady and her mind was 
elsewhere. "I don't understand. I've only just arrived. I haven't been 
tortured. So why would you send me to one of these Recovery Centers?"

I managed a very weak smile. "Don't you understand, you beautiful 
fool," I confessed. "I'm offering you a way out. I want to take 
advantage of my position here to bend the rules and let you go free. 
Can't you see? I'm not going to hurt you. I can't. I love you too much. 
I won't do it. It would break my heart to destroy our marriage."

I had been hoping for an ecstatic reaction. I was expecting her to be 
happy, relieved, to rush round the desk and hold me tight. However, I 
was disappointed. She did none of these things. Instead, she sat with 
her face like stone. 

"I can't believe you would only bend these rules for me, your wife," 
she said icily. "Suppose, for instance, a woman that you had been 
questioning was penitent. Suppose that she came to you in tears, 
sobbing for mercy. She wanted to confess and tell you everything that 
she knows. Surely you wouldn't hurt her any more? Not given these 
circumstances. You would have to take her statement and send her at 
once to this Recovery Center, just like you're talking about doing for 
me? Surely, my Captain?"

I think she asked in hope, rather than in expectation. I sighed. "You 
don't understand, my pet. How could I do what you ask? I'd want to help 
her, this woman, obviously I would. But she might be lying, she could 
be deceiving me. How could I possibly tell whether it's the whole truth 
in her confession, unless I tested her with pain?"

She swallowed hard. Her voice was a whisper. "So you would torture her. 
Despite the fact that she is repentant and wants to confess all that 
she knows, you would still strip her of her clothes and torment her 
naked body with your horrible tortures?"

"Only until I could be sure, quite certain of her honesty."

She turned away from me, disgusted, staring into mid air. "So what's so 
different about me? Why don't you do these things to me? How do you 
know that I'm not lying?"

I laughed. "You, my sweet one? You could not lie: not to me. We have 
promised, vowed to tell each another the truth."

A tear spilled from the corner of her eye, running in a silvery streak 
down her cheek. "I want to. I want to so very much, but I can't do it, 
can I, my Captain? I can't accept your most generous offer."

I reached out, confused. I reached forward, and very tenderly, very 
gingerly teased the tear from her face, letting it run onto the nail of 
my index finger. "I don't understand..."

"I can't accept this olive branch you extend to me."

I felt in my pocket for a clean tissue. "But you must," I insisted, 
finding one and placing her gentle tear upon it. "You must make a full 
confession."

I handed her the tissue and she wiped her face. Then she looked up, 
with great determination, suddenly assuming great strength of bearing 
and diction. "I'm sorry, my Captain. I know you mean well, but you 
forget. I have chosen this path quite deliberately. I have chosen it 
knowing it to be perilous and despite its likely personal cost. But I 
have no choice. I have lived with allegation and with innuendo for more 
than two years now. People point their fingers. They say, there goes 
the wife of the Beast of Grimaldi: the Deflowerer of Maidens and the 
Ripper of Fair Flesh. I hear the gossip each day but can neither defend 
you nor accuse you. Can you imagine how that makes me feel? How 
depressed that makes me? I bear ridicule and scorn each day that I 
work. No longer, my love. I have to understand; I have to know. I can 
no longer ignore the fact that I am married to an actor who plays a 
wonderful part for me, who cares for me and loves me, but while 
carefully concealing his darker self. I need for once to see this man 
whole, to understand his peaks and his troughs, the depths to which he 
will descend. I won't learn any of these things in a Recovery Center, 
now will I, my Captain?

I sank into my chair, my mind in a whirl. "No," I muttered. I was 
dizzy. Everything was swirling. "You will learn nothing there."

This time it was her turn to take my hand within hers. She smiled a 
beautiful watery smile through her soft sad tears. "I will not love you 
any the less for it, my Captain. I have in my mind already suffered far 
worse than your worst can ever be. But I have to know."

She was beautiful, my Chiquita, and braver than I had ever suspected. 
How could I possibly torment this angel? And yet, in my head, the demon 
screamed: imagine her! imagine! imagine! 

She wanted to know; she really wanted to experience the horrors of my 
interrogation.

And so, in my imagination this demon took me on a flight of fancy. It 
showed her to me in the torture chamber, her naked body quivering in 
pain and in terror. I saw her twisting and contorting in a vain 
struggle to escape. 

Such a dilemma. What should I do?

"It isn't your fault," the demon in my head told me. "You tried, you 
tried so very hard to free her. How can you blame yourself if she 
insists in forcing the issue?"

"You think me evil?" I asked her wretchedly.

"I don't know," she answered honestly, looking straight into my eye. 
"If I knew that, I wouldn't be here. I pray that you aren't, but I fear 
that you are."

I fought back a tear. How could she think that? How could she think it 
and still claim to love me? Hiding my emotion from her, I quickly rose 
to my feet, pushed back my chair, and walked across to the window. I 
stared out reflectively, dejectedly, into the darkness outside. The 
central compound was bathed with the harsh white brilliance of two 
floodlights, and yet despite this, there was nothing to be seen outside 
apart from a heavy blackness and the foreboding shape of the 
Interrogation Block opposite.

Several lights burned brightly from its windows, each one a burning 
candle for some suffering wretch. That's where I would be soon, I 
thought, and Francesca too, each of us doomed to fight our own personal 
demons. We would both pass through a fire tonight, of that I was sure, 
but I had this premonition that while she might be refined by it and 
shown to be pure, I was destined to be consumed in its flames and 
proved to be evil.

"You will leave me," I croaked. "Once this is over, there is no reason 
for you to remain."

She crossed to my side and took my arm. "Don't you understand, you 
stupid fool," she smiled weakly. "I don't want to leave you. If I 
didn't love you, if I wanted to leave you, I wouldn't be here with you 
tonight. For better or worse, I'm yours, my Captain."

I fought back my tears. Please God. May the candle burn for me tonight, 
and for the poor tormented wretch I have become, and not for her and 
the crumpled angel to which I will reduce her.



End of Part Two


AUTHOR'S NOTE

Thank you to everyone who so kindly responded to part one by 
encouraging me to write more. Thank you to my proofreaders for their 
invaluable assistance and suggestions.


Please feel free to write with your suggestions. I'll use them if I 
can.




Grim Williams
grim_williams@my-deja.com

