There was a bright light and fear.

Then blackness...

"Wake up soldier"

I moved instinctively, and was brought up short by something that rattled and restrained my right arm with a grip of iron.

Eyes fully opened now, I realised i was on a dirt floor and not a bunk.

There were manacles attached to my wrists. The chain connecting them ran through a large ring attached to a wall above my head.

And what was this thing around my throat? i felt a fine metal mesh with my fingers and some sort of box on the back of my neck.

A coolness to my scalp had my fingers exploring there as well. Someone had shaved my head.

What the hell?

I levered myself up so i was leaning against the wall and looked around for answers.

The room was dim and smelt of damp earth and urine. There were other presents, also chained, most lying prone.

Were they asleep? Unconscious? Dead?

Atleast there seemed to be someone else awake. They were sitting up right in the opposite left corner --watching me.

There were 4 of us in the cell. We were all wearing the same thing: sleeveless, concrete grey tracksuit, and no shoes.

The cell itself was of a cinder block construction, with daylight coming in dimly through chicken-wired triangles at the end of the roof space. There was something that might be a concrete water butt in the middle of the wall opposite me. The air felt hot, and oppressive, like it does just before a storm in the tropics. Obviously, something bad had happened.

But what? And why?

"Why did you call me a soldier?" I asked.

"I did not..." It was a woman's voice --she was also bald.

There was the sound of confusion in her voice, and her accent was Canadian, with something extra thrown in.

"But you are, yes?" she added.

Was i a soldier? I tried the idea on for size...

And came up blank. For the life of me, I didn't know.

I groped for an alternative...

And once more came up with nothing more than a growing headache. "Ouch".

"You too?" said the woman.

"Me too, what?" i replied.

"Can you remember anything?" she asked, and then added, "What is your name?"

My name? It should be the easiest of things to remember.

"Unghh!" I replied, gritting my teeth as the pain in my head doubled.

"What happened to me? Why can't i remember who i am?" And why does my head hurt so much?"

"I do not know" replied the woman, the sound of quiet desperation in her voice. "But i am the same."

There was a groan from the other side of the room and a man voice--also accented--said "Can't you two let a bloke have his hangover in peace?"

The guy was chained to the wall on the opposite side of the door from me.

In the lowlight, i could just make out that he was also bald and wearing the same short-sleeved, gret uniform, chains and neck band as the woman and i were.

As he pushed himself up, I saw tattoos on his muscly arms. There was almost the top of a tattoo visible at his open collar.

"Anyone remember what we were drinking?" he asked the room in general. "Cause i don't."

He groaned and carefully rotated one of his shoulders and then gingerly touched the side of his head.

"That must have been some party" he said. "My head hurts and i feel like I've been in a fight. And can someone please explain how i got sunburnt on one side of my head."

"What is your name?" the woman asked suddenly.

"My name?" the man replied. "It's..." He went silent for a time nd then groaned and said, "Bloody hell, woman. Don't do that."

He was an Aussie, or a Brit. Lower class, and a criminal maybe.

"It's not her..." i said. "At least, i don't think so"

I looked across at the woman, who was now leaning forward to look at the new guy. This brought her face into the light.

She looked deeply tanned and had dark eyes, and could have been any age between 20 and 40.

I could now see that there was a number stencilled onto her top: 47.

I look down and saw that i had my own number 46.

"Number 47." I said, looking at the woman. "If you can't remember your name, can you remember where you're from?"

She shook her head. "I have been awake for a while, and all i have been able to get is a splitting headache."

Her accent, while Canadian, was flavoured with something older. She wasn't tanned, her skin was dark.

"You're one of the First Nations peoples" i said. "Do you remember anything about that?"

"An Indian?" said the man whose stencil read '50'. "Looks like they'll take all sorts in this place."

"What do you mean by that?" said the woman, defiance in her voice.

"Nothing" replied 50 with a shrug. "But the big guy here a black man and i know im an Aussie. If this is some sort of international convention for amnesiacs, then the catering sucks--big time."

Big guy? I looked at the far corner. The huddled shape there was not big.

Then i realised that what i thought was a concrete water butt in the middle of the opposite wall was actually a large man curled up upon himself with his back to me.

He wasn't big. He was enourmous!

I whistles through my teeth and said "He a big one."

"Ain't he just" replied number 50, a note of--Was it fear?--in his voice.

Don't let him dwell on it, was my first thought. Don't predispose him against someone you might need.

"You in the corner!" i said in a loud voice. "Are you awake?"

The Aussie instantly cut in on me. "Hey, cut it out, they're tiny. It could be a kid... I can't tell if its a boy or a girl because the bastards have shaved their head as well." He paused and then added. "But, just for the record, they're white."

"Why would a child be in here?" asked the woman.

The Australian didn't reply, but i thought i saw what might have been a laconic shrug

It was a good question. Where in the world are there prisons that even keep men with women, let alone adults with children?

"Have either of you got any idea where we might be?" i asked.

"The bloody tropics, mate" replied Number 50.

"Thanks for nothing" i said and swipe sweat from my brow.

"You're welcome" he replied. "Beyond that...i got nothing."

He was right though.

It was hot and the humidity was high. We were definitely south of the Tropic of Cancer... Or was that north of the Tropic of Capricorn?

"There is a jungle out there" the woman said suddenly. "A wild place. I can feel it."

"Whoa" said 50. "I think she going all woo woo on us. And being stuck in a prison cell with a nutter is the last thing i bloody need."

"Why do you say that?" I prompted the woman, ignoring the man.

"Can you not smell it? Can you not feel it?" replied Number 47

There was something in the way she spoke that had the ring of truth to it.

I took a sniff and a long listen.

I could smell nothing than what i'd already smelt. Nothing that i couldn't see.

And then i heard a dog barking. And a voice. A commanding man's voice. Was that Spanish?

Then something hit the tin roof, then another, and another.

In seconds, all i could hear was the sound of the rain.

"Tell me more about the jungle" i shouted over the sound of torrential downpour.

The woman leant forward and i saw her say 'What?'

I shouted. "Tell me about the jungle!"

It was no use, the rain was too loud and we were too far apart, the woman just shook her head and leant back against the wall.

Without being able to talk to the others, i had nothing to do but evaluate the situation.

The temperature was dropping quickly with the rain, but the green tinge on the wall told me that this was a regular event.

And i'd heard some Spanish.

So, some sort of prison in the tropics. And in a jungle, if the woman was right.

Central America? South America? The Philippines?

A movement on the ground to my right caught my attention. I turned to see a rivulet of water running across the packed earth. It was coming through a gap at the bottom of the door.

The place was definitely low-rent. The compacted dirt floor would be slick with mud in no time.

But that didn't explain these bands around our necks.

What were they?

The band felt like a fine metal mesh sitting tight against the skin, but not tight enough to impede breathing. And there was that box on the back. What was that for?

Could it be one of those electronic devices they used to keep tabs on low-level criminals in home detention?

I didn't like the idea of being monitored, so i eased my fingers under the mesh to see how strong it was.

That was a mistake

The mesh suddenly tightened, and within seconds it felt like i was being strangled as my own fingers were being crushed into my throat.

If they'd wanted to kill me, they'd have already done so.

I managed to pull my fingers out, but the mesh closed even more tightly on my throat--Now i couldn't breathe.

But somehow i knew that was the least of my worries.

The carotid arteries that supple the brain with oxygen lie close to the surface in the throat. With the band positioned as it was, i would pass out in seconds, and die soon afterwards.

Unless the pressure was reduced.

But why kill me now? What would be the point?

I looked desperately around the cell, hoping someone could help me.

The woman was on her hands and knees, one hand reaching towards me, but still too far away. The others were oblivious to what was happening to me.

Mouth open, and trying to draw a desperate breath. i collapsed onto my side, clawing ineffectually at the mesh band that was killing me.

The world was starting to go black around the edges when the pressure suddenly eased off.

Blood flowed again, and i could breathe.

I drew in a ragged breath and i realised what the point was.

This had been a lesson.

They were in control.

Having learnt a harsh lesson with the band, i settled down to listen to the rain, watch the shallow puddle of water grow in the middle of the cell and try to work out what to do next.

Strangely, that was less painful than trying to work out how i got here or who i was.

The big guy in the middle of the room started to shift uneasily in his sleep when he began to get wet.

Then all of a sudden, he forced himself upnight. Over the sound of the rain, I thought i heard him shout: "Oh no! Mom, i've done it again."

I glanced at Number 50, who seemed to find this funny, but then my eyes were drawn back to the black man as he climbed to his feet.

He really was big, with huge arms and legs, which already had the strechable cloth of his prison uniform straining under protest

"What's going on?" he cried, looking around the cell, pausing briefly to squint at each of us through narrowed eyes.

Number 47 held up a hand and spoke soothing words to him, which i couldn't hear over the sound of the rain.

"And why am i in chains?" he yelled, rattling them at her. "What did i do that was bad?"

"Calm down" i called out, motioning for him to sit. I don't think he really heard me over the rain and the sound or his own voice.

"And why so i have a headache?" he shouted, bringing his hands up to his head.

"My hair! Where my hair?" This discovery seemed to drive him over the edge. "You can't do this to me" he cried. "Let me go! Let me go!"

He punctuated each of these demands by yanking on his chains, snapping them tight with ease.

Then he grabbed the two lenghts in both hands and pulled as hard as he could.

I heard the sound of the links breaking even over the rain.

Free from the wall, he spun back toward me and brought his hands up to the band around his throat, which i could see had already started to tighten.

Somehow the band had been triggered without him touching it.

Then, suddenly, i saw his eyes roll back in his head and he just collapsed, like a puppet with cut strings.

At the same time, Number 49 in the opposite corner started to scream.

With that piercing scream, there was no doubt that our 5th prison inmate was a girl, or atleast a young woman.

I called out to her. Tried to calm her. Tried to tell her that everything would be okay. I doubt she heard my lies over the rain.

Number 50 was closer and seemed to be having more success communicating with her. At least the dim figure seemed to be responding to him, though i could not hear what he was saying so i doubt she could either.

I decided instead to see how the fallen giant was.

Moving as close to the black man as i could, i was relieved to see that the band around his throat had loosened.

I felt for a pulse, and found one. He was alive but unconscious.

Somehow i doubted that it had been the band that had caused his collapse. That had happened too quickly and the effect had been so total. A man that big should surely have gone down fighting.

And he had collapsed without having tampered with the band.

No, something else was going on here.

Maybe someone had done something to him by remote control, once he'd demonstrated that the chains couldn't hold him.

Were we being spied upon?