Haron and I went to the theatre with our dear friend Martha last week: the lead actor in the production had an air of menance that set my mind wandering. It took a few days, but this is what popped up as a result:–

“It was a dare. I’m really sorry.” A moment’s miscalculation, an outbreak of misplaced bravado, a bonding experience now gone horribly wrong as they stood in the miserable storeroom above the cafe.

The second girl spoke up. “We can pay for our drinks; of course we can. We really didn’t mean to run off.”

Their inquisitor’s silence continued as he watched the young ladies squirm before him. Eventually, he spoke, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper: “Girls who steal deserve to be punished. Severely.”

“Please, sir, we’re sorry” mingled with “Please don’t call the police.” It was the latter that caused him to laugh loudly.

“Do you know who I am?” They didn’t. Until he told them his name, and they realised that their local coffee store was just one of the business interests of the notorious local mafia chief. Not a man to cross, feared by the local community – and yet they had just stolen from him.

He had his assistants strip them and tie them over the chairs, but he himself wielded the cane. Hard. No ’six of the best’, this: twenty each, powerful, punishing, until they begged and pleaded and fell silent save for their sobs.

And then he allowed them to compose themselves, to dress, and sent them on their way with dire warnings – and a request for them to hand over the cost of two cappuccinos to the coffee shop’s manager on their way out…