I was tingled with excitement, and felt that absurd happiness which I always experienced when engaged in a mischievous escapade. Benny also gleamed with happy mischief. We stopped as we entered the barn, something squelched beneath Benny's foot as he moved forward.

'Shit!' He exclaimed in disgust.

'Yes, probably.' I agreed and then descended into a fit of giggles.

'Shhssh.' Benny, his face full of a belligerent expression, demanded with a violent hiss,

'What is it?' I asked in an almost soundless whisper as my eyes grew in alarm. A twig snapped. We froze in a moment into wary stillness, looking at each other aghast.

'Constables?' I whispered, and looked to Benny for corroboration, he nodded. I knew there was danger somewhere around and knew that we must escape. Before I heard the first footstep, I knew I was about to hear it – close, too close behind me. The footfall sound when I heard it gave me the sensation that an iced hand had been placed on my heart. I tried to run, made it outside the barn, I tried to hide, but I tripped over a tree root. Benny was, equally, unsuccessful in evading the Officers of the law. The Officer, who had captured me, handled me roughly. I stared into eyes rounded and ferocious with outrage.

'So, you are the two lads who've been getting into this barn to steal produce?' He asked me with an unmistakeable note of menace in his voice.

I was momentarily tongue-tied, my Adam's apple bounced up and down my throat, but no sounds came out. Benny's ferocious vanity came to the fore, 'I've got more sophistication than what he has. You're much better off asking me.'

The Sergeant's face was like a broken rock; his eyes were dark and alert like those of a fierce animal. He had a menacing moustache above a sullen mouth. All in all, I could not recall ever meeting a more frightening and distasteful individual.

'Sophistication, indeed.' The Officer scowled, 'and, by the way, call me, Sir!' Benny simply smirked at this remark. I sighed within myself. I could always tell when Benny was about to be rude.

'You've been knighted, I suppose?' Benny finished his remark by nudging me in the ribs and chuckling. The Sergeant also smiled, his face cracked wide like a coal-scuttle, but his eyes took on a most fanatical gleam. His junior colleague, the Constable, laughed in a sinister fashion. That piece of dialogue from Benny resolved any doubts which the policemen may have felt. In a short time I we were inside a cell, with details of our crime being processed.

Events flowed rapidly from that point, we were summonsed, and appeared before the Juvenile Court Magistrate on the following Monday. I was wearing my best shirt, complete with neck-rubbing stiff white collar, and in a demonstration of how pessimistically I regarded our prospects, brand new underwear. Magistrate Harding arrived; he looked the embodiment of power and privilege, the kind who took a grim view of every single boyish indiscretion, however trivial. He was obviously a thoroughly bad hat. He narrowed his eyes to glare at us; his gaze was oddly penetrating, giving me a sudden feeling of discomfort, his face shone with bright malice. The Police Sergeant trundled slowly through the evidence.

'The boy's boisterous manner attracted my attention, Sir. The sight of the two boys clearly up to mischief was more than any members of the Constabulary can be expected to countenance. My experience persuaded me that some devilry was afoot.' The magistrate was a truly terrible man – the sort who froze the marrow in your bones with silent, poisonous glances.

'Many thefts have been reported, Sir, it being harvest season.'

'No doubt, in this case,' said the Magistrate in an oily voice, 'your vigilance prevented a further occurrence.' This was indeed so, Benny's plan was that we supplement a, largely uneaten, school lunch he described as 'roast shoe leather and boiled grass,' by snatching some fruit harvested earlier during that day.

Benny's wore his habitual expression of dogged obstinacy as he listened to the summary.

'You are a pair of very loathsome young rogues' said the Magistrate with icy calm. We absorbed his statement in a sponge-like silence. The faces of the observers grew fiercer with approval as the Magistrate's tirade grew more and more uncompromising. I sensed there was a ghoulish gusto to his tone as he finally announced that, 'despite your youth, you will each receive six strokes of the birch.' He added, 'in my long experience on the bench, I have seldom needed to sentence a young juvenile for a second birching,' he smiled gushingly, 'after the pain and shame of receiving a thorough birching, few boys mediate further crimes.' Magistrate Harding concluded with an ever broader smile, 'I hope that will be the case on this occasion.' The Magistrate's verdict and sentence were popular. The observers filled the court with mutters of approval interspersed with sighs of contentment at such a happy outcome.

One of the Constables grabbed my elbow with one hand and the scruff of my neck with his other, we went down some stairs and then towards the court building's nether regions. Areas the public do not see, unless they are very unlucky. I walked down the corridor with an extraordinary sensation of lightness, of being on the verge of flight. I found myself in a big basement room, all the windows of which were shuttered. The only furniture in the room was a birching bench. The apparatus was stout, constructed from dark wood and possessed a black leather top for miscreants to rest over. The device was festooned with straps designed to pinion, in a helplessly exposed 'buttocks up' posture, miscreants reluctant to accept punishment. The use of the restraints allowed the Officer to thrash lawbreakers methodically and at leisure.

'Couple of young arses to birch, Sarge.' 'My' Constable announced placing me on terra firma.

'Right.' The Sergeant said, slapping his hands together and rubbing them as with eagerness for the challenge.

'You go and fetch the Doctor, Gladwin.'

Yes, Sarge.' I observed the constable's quick obedience; it was clear how much respect this Sergeant commanded. The 'Sarge' looked an experienced bircher of juvenile bottoms, and I felt that he was smiling inwardly as a further Constable pushed a reluctant Benny into the room.

The Sergeant took off his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirts. He gave me a long reproachful look similar to that which a cook gives to a cockroach when the former is sprinkling insect powder on it. His eyes were compressed and his they gazed at me with a sort of hard glow in them. His mood could only be described as sombre. He did not have the look about him of a man about to birch a pair of bottoms lightly. He was silent. He narrowed his eyes into slits. He took off his shirt. Great muscles bulged along the length of his arm. His arms were brawny and possessed tendon and veins that looked as strong as iron bands.

'Unfasten your trousers, lads – the Doc will want a feel of your crown jewels.' If there was a hint of a smile on his face, one could only describe it as subcutaneous. My fingers did not work very effectively, but nevertheless, I soon stood obediently holding up my trousers. I felt a hot wave of pink wash over my face; no doubt I was a pretty shade. I trembled relentlessly.

Thankfully, the Doctor arrived quickly. He was small-eyed and with a high forehead which his hair went back in a dozen glossy ripples. The medical man smelled of camphor and disinfectant. The man soon placed the bell of his stethoscope on Benny's chest and listened. He did have a feel of Benny's 'crown jewels' – not a long feel, but enough to send a tide of scarlet even to the tips of Benny's ears. The Doctor made Benny bend over observed that both cheeks of my friends arse were pale, unblemished, and fit to absorb punishment.

'This one if fine.' The Doctor announced slapping Benny's left buttock with unnecessary vigour.

'Get your arse over the bench.' The Sergeant said frowning in a most unpleasant manner. This was a face, I suspected, that had birched a thousand young bottoms.

Benny, holding his trousers up at the waist, tottered over without comment and settled placidly enough across the birching frame. He then wriggled luxuriously to find a comfortable location.

The Doctor listened at various points to my chest before he made me turn around and repeated the process on my back. He lifted my shirt, told me to bend over and release my trousers. He peered at my bum, and ran his hand lightly over my right cheek.

'Up you get.' With one hand he measured my pulse and with the other he cupped my nuts and squeezed gently, he held my 'assets' until he had waited the required time to make validate his pulse count. Nobody seemed to notice this excessive interest, although folks were accumulating. They loitered in the corridor with shrinking courage, a cluster of people at the entrance, including the 'call me, 'Sir'' Sergeant who had apprehended initially us and recently given evidence. Some were constables, others administration clerks, court messengers and so on, but they were willing to risk the wrath of their superiors to watch a good whacking. For those not directly involved observing a beating is always a desirable pastime.

I coughed to order, the Doctor seemed satisfied. 'Fine.'

'What's going on?' A voice at the door enquired. 'Some lads getting the birch.' The reply came.

A more helpful loafer explained the situation in greater detail. 'Sergeant Hawkins is going to give a pair of lads six strokes of the birch, and they'll be thunderingly good ones too, unless I'm much mistaken.'

Magistrate Harding strode into the room. He looked very pleased with himself.

The Sergeant produced his birch from a built-in cupboard. Everybody in the room eyed it like a thunderbolt, except Benny, who was now sprawled inelegantly over the birching block with two constables making the final adjustments to the straps which held his ankles and wrists in place.

The bircher looked on with an air of professional patience. He reminded me of a triangle player in an orchestra, waiting his moment. He wagged his birch rod slowly until the constables, satisfied with the tightness of the fastenings that held Benny in place, lifted my friend's shirt and revealed to those who had squeezed inside the room, and the increasing number who gawped from the corridor, the miscreant's handsome, but doomed, buttocks.

'Ready, Sarge.' A constable stated.

The observers fell silent in thrilled expectation. The Sergeant came forward with the measured tread of a man conscious of his duty to dispense justice.

The Sergeant swung the birch. Great muscles rippled from his shoulder down his arm like water ruffled by the wind. The bundled collection of twigs travelled at immense velocity and, as they encountered Benny's bottom, made a sickening 'thwack' sound. I felt the blood drain away from my face. My friend convulsed over the bench, and issued a sharp 'ouch'. My scalp shrank as I noticed a rosy tone spread over Benny's bottom. The Sergeant lashed a second stroke and Benny puffed and panted like a racehorse. Perspiring, thin-lipped, and wearing a look of determined concentration, the Sergeant again clubbed his birch rod against Benny's upturned buttocks. My friend responded by yelling an 'ouch', writhing and babbling incoherently. It seemed to me that I had never met a beastlier Police Officer. Benny's bottom was very rosy and flecked with small bruises of various tones where the individual birch twigs had lashed. My friend groaned in a low pitch as the Sergeant tapped the birch over his hot looking skin. Benny howled after the Officer had delivered another stroke. The Sergeant thrashed a fast fifth blow, which caused Benny's small bottom to buck, clench and gyrate. The spectacle caused much amusement for those watching. The Sergeant's smile was thin, but appeared very sincere. He waited for Benny to stop moaning and writhing, and then thrashed a final stroke.

Benny eventually stood up; his normally pale face flushed a deep pink, deeper in tone than all but the most severely bruised segments of his bottom. He wrung his hands together; it appeared that his morale had hit a new low. The Sergeant gave Benny an icy stare and then turned his withering visage on me.

'Now it's your turn, sonny boy.' He gave his birch rod a particularly vigour downward slash and produced a very broad smile. The birching Sergeant was clearly at his most ebullient.

I flinched and, hobbled by my trousers, shuffled forward. A constable's hand between my shoulders pushed me ahead. It felt like the way your legs moved in nightmares. Handling me roughly, the constable propelled me towards the birching block. I felt observers stare at my back, and lower, as I passed. Some made dire predictions about my fate, 'This rascal looks like a squealer.' Opined one loiterer gleefully.

I rested over the bench. I felt the heat from Benny's body and heard the Sergeant swishing his birch keenly. Constables each took a wrist firmly and, with expertise, borne no doubt of regular practice, secured them inside leather cuffs. Both my arms were immobile. They effortlessly repeated the same process to make sure my ankles were tightly enclosed within the straps attached to the birching frame's legs. The Officers tugged my trousers down. I felt a shiver of fear, as my underwear – a pristine new pair for the occasion – soon followed my trousers. A constable pulled my shirt up and bunched it at my shoulders. My bottom was now exposed. I felt an icy chill spread over the contours. I was deeply embarrassed.

'Ready, Sarge.' A constable stated and stepped back.

The birch rod patted over the centre of my bottom. It felt heavy and moist. I heard a strain of the Sergeant's muscle and flinched as I heard the instrument swoop through the air. The birch rod crashed against my rump. Red sizzled across the contours of my backside. I gasped in surprise, but was determined not to 'squeal'. The Sergeant thrashed my second stroke. The heat over the curves of my buttocks felt like thousands of fine needles gradually increasing their pressure. I gulped and swallowed. The increase in pain had been significant. I clenched the cheeks of my buttocks and wriggled as much as I was able over the frame. I panted and waited. The third stroke arrived quickly, and an almost immediate fourth surprised me. I listened to the throb and drone as the nerve-ends all across my buttocks pulsed beneath the welts from the accumulation of birch strokes. I groaned as the birch rod returned and tormented my bottom with light tentative tapping. I clenched my jaw and ground my teeth together. I grunted as the stroke landed and then wailed. My pain had multiplied rapidly. I shuffled over the birching frame, I was not able to move much, but my right cheek had taken more of the punishment than my left side, and I strove to put that, less damaged buttock in the most prominent position. The Sergeant thrashed his final stroke. My left cheek took the brunt of the assault. I breathed a long, deep sigh.

I stood there, squeaking and gibbering, completely at a loss as to how to deal with the appalling pain across my buttocks. The usual trick of rubbing both cheeks very hard did not seem to make much difference. I did notice however that my vigorous massaging action drew long stares from some of the watchers. The loiterers were in general terms edging, slightly shamefaced, away from the room. Benny's pale face was frozen in a silent grimace. I thought at the time, that it would be a long while before Benny put the health of our backsides at risk by thinking up any other pranks. Sadly, I was wrong.