Paul didn't know what time he awoke. He had no watch and there were no windows to indicate whether or not it was light outside. He relieved himself and drank a little water. It was brackish, but he was thirsty. As the smell of his feces penetrated the small cell, he began to despair. Everything in the prison was designed to break your spirit, to make you lose hope. He knew that every prisoner was pressured to confess his crime. A confession made it easy. The court simply sentenced you. It didn't have to consider evidence, and the charges didn't have to be substantiated. It didn't have to take time to weigh mitigating circumstances or to question the credibility of witnesses. It was all devilishly clever.

He began to pace back and forth in his cell, forcing his mind to prepare for whatever might come. Khan had said he'd see him again. Probably he was going to be questioned and given a chance to make a statement, confessing his blasphemy. They knew he wouldn't do that voluntarily, so maybe he would be tortured after all. But they wouldn't want to beat him in a way that left evidence of his mistreatment. The torture would be something else.

When he felt his fingers feeling compulsively for a smoke, Paul stopped pacing, clenched his fists, and held his breath. He had to get hold of himself. He'd only been here a few hours, and already he was falling apart. He exhaled and began to do stretching exercises. First, he reached as high as he could, then he bent over and touched the floor. Then he clasped his hands over his head and leaned to the right, then to the left. He put his arms back and locked his fingers together, raising his hands as high as he could and holding the muscles tense for a few moments before releasing his grip. He squatted and rotated his head to the right, back, left, and front. He stood up, put his hands on his hips, and rotated his body from the waist forward, right, back and left. Then forward, right, back and left again. He shook out his arms and his legs, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled.

I need to develop a routine, he thought, to keep control of my mind. He knelt and said the prayers of the mass. Then he stood up and began to explore his cell. The walls were old brick, and there were chinks in between the bricks where the mortar had been dislodged. In some places he felt what appeared to be writing on the wall, scratched into the brick, but the light was so dim that he couldn't make out any words. In the corner with the buckets there was a drain. "I wonder how often they wash the floor in these deluxe accommodations," he mumbled out loud.

Across from his bed he found rings embedded in the wall for irons. In one corner by the floor he found a hole. It wasn't big enough for a rat, but a mouse might easily squeeze through. As he began to think about the animal life that might be sharing the cell with him, he saw his first visitor. A cockroach had crawled out of the drain and was running toward the excrement bucket. Paul smiled grimly. He must be glad to see me.

He watched while the cockroach felt along the base of the bucket until it apparently found the right place and began to climb. The bucket sloped back toward the top, so the climb was difficult. Paul sat quietly as the cockroach slowly worked its way to the rim of the bucket. As it began to crawl over the round rim, there was a moment when its front legs and its rear legs were too short to make contact and its middle legs were all that kept the cockroach going. It was a delicate balance and this time the cockroach got it wrong and fell to the floor. A little further and he would have fallen into the bucket. Paul wondered how often the cockroach fell and whether he fell out more often than he fell into the bucket.

The cockroach landed on its back on the floor a few inches away from the bucket. For a moment it lay still. Then it waved its legs furiously in the air and shook its body, trying to turn over. It exerted all its energy for two or three seconds, and then was quiet for awhile before repeating its efforts. Paul watched for several minutes. He thought the cockroach must be able to right itself, as the problem of falling on its back was a natural hazard. But maybe this was an older cockroach that no longer had the strength. The intervals of rest seemed to be getting longer. "How long can you keep going, buddy?" Paul said. It seemed foolish to be talking to a cockroach, but there was nothing else to do.

He watched the cockroach a little longer and then began to feel ashamed of himself for allowing the struggles of an insect for life to entertain him. He got up, reached down, and with his finger flicked the cockroach onto its feet. He thought it would immediately run down the drain, but instead it stood still and waited. How could the cockroach understand what had just happened? Some sort of incomprehensible intervention had changed the course of its life. It had been facing death but now was returned to life. Had some experience like this among the ancient ancestors of the human race led them to believe in divine intervention?

He smiled. For the cockroach Paul was god. If there were any spark of consciousness in the cockroach, it might understand the universe differently because of his intervention. And that understanding might be passed on through its genes to the next generations. He lay back on his bunk and turned on his side so he could watch the cockroach, to see what it would do next. Perhaps it's considering another climb up the bucket. It must be tired and that would make it more dangerous. But it must also be hungry and that means it has an even greater need for food. What would it do? Would its experience of being saved affect its decision either to climb the bucket a second time or to retreat to the safety of the drain?

Suddenly, as though it had made a decision, the cockroach turned back toward the bucket. He's going to go for it, Paul thought. The cockroach moved more slowly this time to the base of the bucket and felt around for a few minutes, before beginning its ascent. Paul watched as it moved slowly upwards. He's being more careful this time, or perhaps he's just tired. The chances are even greater than he won't make it over the rim.

The cockroach had stopped on the side of the bucket, about three inches from the floor, when Paul saw a mouse come out of the hole in the wall. It began to scurry along the wall toward the bucket. Paul realized at once that the mouse was going to attack the cockroach, if it wasn't out of reach on the side of the bucket. Paul didn't know how high a mouse could jump, but it looked like the mouse would be just able to get its teeth into the rear end of the cockroach.

For a moment Paul considered helping the cockroach again. He could lift up the cockroach and dump it into the bucket. Or by moving or speaking, he could send the mouse scurrying back into its hole. Instead, he lay still, hardly breathing, and watched as the mouse moved closer and closer. The cockroach was now trying to climb higher. Perhaps he smelled the mouse nearby. But when the mouse leaped up from the base of the bucket, it just hit the back of the cockroach knocking it to the floor.

The cockroach fell on its feet this time, but as it tried to reach the drain where the grates were too small to allow the mouse to follow, the mouse pounced on it. Holding the squirming cockroach tightly in its teeth, the mouse quickly went back to its hole. As the mouse disappeared from sight, Paul realized he'd been holding his breath. He exhaled and relaxed his muscles. It could easily have gone the other way. If the cockroach had made it just a little higher, it would have been safe, at least for the time being. Of course, it might have fallen off again, but the mouse might have gone looking for other prey.

What if he hadn't intervened by turning the cockroach over? Then the mouse would have had an easy time of it. So he hadn't changed the course of history for the cockroach after all, and its descendants wouldn't carry any memory of his saving intervention because there wouldn't be any descendants. Paul could have saved the cockroach in order to preserve that memory. Why hadn't he? Why had he just watched the mouse catch the cockroach? Had he felt this was simply nature taking its course? Or had he derived some strange pleasure from watching the chase and capture? He had to admit he would have liked the cockroach to escape. In watching nature films he always rooted for the animal being hunted. Paul didn't know why he hadn't helped the cockroach a second time.

The sound of the door being unlocked brought him back to his own reality. When a guard appeared in the doorway, Paul stood up. "Follow me," the guard said, and stepped out into the hall. Paul followed him, waited as the door was locked, and then walked behind the guard to the door at the end of the cellblock. After they passed through and continued down another hall, the guard led Paul into a room where Khan was sitting at a table smoking a cigarette. He motioned to Paul to sit across from him. The guard sat down in a chair a little behind Khan, next to a second guard who had already been in the room.

Paul fought to maintain his composure. He looked at Khan and found the smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. "Fr. Paul, I'll come straight to the point. We want to know the names of all those involved in your petition to the Supreme Court against the blasphemy law. If you cooperate, we'll just take you back to the cell until your hearing this evening. If you don't cooperate, then we'll make your experience here more unpleasant."

Paul swallowed, before speaking. He hoped his voice would not reveal his terror. "Will Mr. Javed be informed so he can be present?" Paul asked.

"Fr. Paul, we will follow our normal procedures in this case. You needn't trouble yourself about these details. Just give us a the names of those who have been supporting you."

Paul sat silently for a moment. He was sure they already had all the names. They had their spies. It might be that they hoped to come up with a few new names. Or perhaps this was just a way of making him feel like a traitor.

"I don't think you'll beat me to get the names, because the international media will be covering this case and will make a big story out of any mistreatment I receive." Paul couldn't bring himself to use the word "torture." It was bad enough to speak of "mistreatment."

"Do you really think your friends on the outside can protect you, Fr. Paul? I assure you they cannot. I have other business to attend to, so you have one minute to decide. If you don't begin talking, I'll leave you with these two gentlemen."

Paul tried to stall. "You already know all the people involved. We've held public meetings, you had your people there. There's nothing more I can tell you."

"Just give us the names. That's all we're asking. If we already know of them, there's no reason not to do as we have asked."

Paul sat silently again for a moment. It probably wouldn't hurt to give them the names, but then they would say that he had betrayed the others. Once he was released, he wouldn't be able to deny it. And that would undermine his relationship with the Christian communities. Of course, if he had been tortured and then given the names, people would understand. But he couldn't just give Khan names because he'd been asked and then show his face again in his colony.

"I'm sorry, but I won't betray my friends to you." Paul said this with more courage than he felt, although he continued to think that Khan was bluffing. He didn't believe they would dare torture him

Khan stood up quickly. "I think you'll change your mind before too long." He turned and without saying a word to the two guards left the room.

"You should've listened to him, priest," the first guard said, as he got up and walked toward Paul. "Stand up and take your clothes off."

Paul hadn't expected that. He pulled the shirt over his shoulders and slipped down his pants.

"Now lie down on the floor. You see, we wanted you to take your clothes off so you wouldn't get them dirty." One of the guards had released a crank on the side of the room, which allowed two heavy ropes to fall to the floor. The other guard quickly attached the nooses on these ropes to Paul' ankles, and before he knew what was happening Paul was suspended upside down with his head about three feet above the floor. He heard the sound of the crank as the ropes were pulled further apart, stretching his legs to the sides.

As the guards stood looking at him, one of them began to slide his club down Paul's right leg toward his groin. "You won't like this position much, priest. Soon your head will feel like its going to burst. But even before that," he said as he raised his club and brought it down hard between Paul's legs, "I think you'll be a little uncomfortable."

Paul screamed, as the pain spread from his crotch up his legs and down into his abdomen. He gasped for breath, and his arms flayed in the air.

"Now as a Christian," he heard the other guard say, "we can't let you off with just one reminder. Because you believe in Jesus as well as God, don't you?" As he said "Jesus," he brought his club down hard once again between Paul's legs. Paul screamed once more and shuddered, as another wave of pain moved through his body.

"You should have been a Muslim, because you've got one more coming for the Holy Spirit." As he spoke, the guard who had first hit Paul swung his club hard into Paul's crotch a third time. The pain was so great that Paul couldn't even cry out. He couldn't get his breath and felt like he was going to faint. As the other guard left the room, he said: "That's just the start, if you don't cooperate."

The guard who had hit him twice sat on one of the chairs and watched Paul cry out with pain and twist in his ankle grips. The pain sent spasms through his body, but Paul fought to gain control of his mind. He remembered how he would concentrate on hearing loud music in his mind when the pain of dental surgery became too much for him to endure. He began to listen in his mind to the conclusion of Mozart's requiem with its full chorus and orchestra.

But he couldn't drive the pain from his mind. It was searing his body, he was sweating profusely, and every movement was agony. He tried to be still and to concentrate on relaxing, because he knew that tension in the body made pain worse. And he listened intently to the timpani as it pounded out the rhythm of the requiem at a tempo much like the throbbing in his head.

Slowly the pain in his crotch diminished in intensity, but it seemed to take forever. Paul thought he'd blacked out for a time, but the pain in his ankles was now greater than the pain in his crotch. He felt like his feet were being ripped off. And the blood in his head was pounding so that his head was beginning to ache fiercely. I'll go mad, he thought. I'll lose my mind. My God, I can't take any more of this. He bit his lips. He didn't want to give in, but he couldn't help himself. "I can't take it!" he heard himself say. "I'll cooperate. Just let me down."

He heard the guard knock twice on the wall, and quickly the other guard returned. They lowered him to the floor where he lay panting, dizzy and sick to his stomach. The guard who had stayed with him tossed him his clothes. "Get dressed. Mr. Khan will be here soon."

Paul rolled onto his side and reached for his pants. He pulled them quickly over his sore ankles, then rolled once to the side and back again to get his pants up. He was too sore to sit, so he pushed himself up onto his knees. He pulled the shirt over his head and then tried to stand, but his ankles wouldn't hold him.

When Khan came into the room, Paul was still lying on the floor. Khan put a small recorder in front of him, turned it on, and said, "For the record state clearly your name."

"My name is Fr. Paul Gill."

"Now Fr. Paul, tell us who helped you file the petition against the blasphemy law.

"Mr. Javed and Mr. Hassan helped me," Paul said. Then he went on to name the key elders of the colonies. "That's all."

"Why did you file this petition?" Khan asked.

"We believe the blasphemy law violates the constitutional requirement for equal protection of the law. We haven't committed any crime by filing a petition against the law with the Supreme Court. We are all trying to improve the law of Pakistan."

"Whose idea was the petition?"

"The petition was my idea."

"Are you admitting that you are responsible?" Khan persisted.

Paul didn't want to blame anyone else. "Yes. I am responsible," he panted, the pain in his body making it hard even to talk.

"What about the bishop of the Church of Karachi in Pakistan? Or the Catholic bishop?"

Paul felt completely devastated. "No. I have nothing more to say."

As Khan left the room, the two guards lifted Paul by his arms and dragged him back to his cell.