So as Hedge’s bladder approached being full, and his brain realised that peeing was not possible, it merely increased the pain level in the area around his groin to maximum intensity, as a warning to him that irreversible bladder damage was about to occur.
Hedge didn’t really understand all the science behind it. He just knew that he was now in utter torment. He estimated it must be around half past nine, with at least another thirty minutes to go before Greenie returned. There was no way he could hold on for that long. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend the pain was not there. In fact, with his eyes closed it seemed worse. He started to let out a continuous moaning noise to see if that helped. It did a little, so he carried on making the noise. Most of the sound though was muffled by the dirty sock covering his mouth.
A few more minutes clicked by. He was now dreaming about being able to piss. He could imagine the sheer pleasure as the pain in his bladder subsided. He started counting, one, two, three, four ….. Was it helping to pass the time? He wasn’t sure, but he continued anyway. He got to three hundred and twenty, and then he stopped. His bladder was hurting terribly. He tried to scream, but nothing came out apart from a long, muted hum.
It was then that he started to cry.
It was the worst possible thing to do at a boarding school like this. The shame of it could be devastating. He couldn’t help it though. The pain levels had now become intolerable. He cried for about five minutes. Tears ran down his face and soaked the sock around his mouth. His eyes stung, but everything else was trivial when compared to the pain in his lower stomach.
He felt like he was about to pass out, when he thought he heard a key in the lock of the room door. A few seconds later the cupboard door opened, and Greenie stood there laughing. He pulled the sock away from Hedge’s mouth.
‘How are we doing then, young man,’ said Greenie. ‘Can I get you a glass of milk maybe?’
‘Greenie, help me, let me out, its agony, please, please …,’ Hedge begged.
‘I’m just off for a shower. I should be back in thirty minutes. I’ll let you go then, okay?’
Greenie started to close the door.
‘Greenie, I beg you,’ screamed Hedge. ‘I can’t last that long. Please, please, let me go, it’s so painful.’
Hedge started to cry again.
‘Pathetic,’ said Greenie, as he opened the cupboard door wider.
‘I suspect you won’t be crossing me again in future, will you?’
‘No, no, definitely not, please let me go, please.’
Greenie leaned in and untied the nylon rope. He lifted Hedge out of the cupboard and pushed him roughly out of his room.
‘Get lost. If you mention this to anyone, there will be a lot more trouble for you.’
Hedge ran to the nearest bathroom. He pushed open the main door and selected a cubicle. He tried to untie the material knotted around his penis, but it took him precious seconds. The pain was horrendous. Eventually the handkerchief came free and he immediately tried to pee. It wouldn’t flow at first, but then it started. There was an intense agony as the blood began flowing through his penis once more, followed by an incredible relief as the pressure on his bladder began to subside.
He stood peeing for a full three minutes. As each second passed, the pain subsided further. At last he stopped and he leaned against the side of the cubicle. He stayed like that for several more minutes, just unwinding his body from the torment it had been through. As he stood there he tried to slow his breathing down. He had been panting heavily as he had pushed to force the urine from his body, and now he needed to relax. Slowly his breathing rate returned to normal. He lifted his head and let out a long breath, thankful that this horrendous ordeal was over at last,
Eventually he arranged his clothing and left the bathroom. He headed off to his lessons for the day.
He never put milk on his cereal for the rest of his time at Upperdale. In fact, since that day, he had rarely drunk milk. Over the next few years, several people asked him why, but he just shrugged and said that he didn’t like the taste.
Cole listened to the story with great interest. When Hedge had finished, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. On the one hand it was quite funny, but he sympathised with the pain, which must have been unbearable.
‘There were some very pleasant boys at your school,’ he said sarcastically, and laughed. ‘Now I need a piss myself. Can you pull off the road just up here and let me relieve myself.’
He unbuckled his seat belt, and waited for the car to stop, before scurrying off behind a nearby bush.
Chapter Thirty Two
Another hundred miles or so, and they were approaching the city of Knoxville. They decided to stop for a while, get something to eat and have a look around. They parked the Mustang, and then walked across to a tower nearby. It was called the Sunsphere. It was a structure about eighty yards high, with a golden, dome shape at the top. The main door to the tower was locked, so they moved on.
They walked into the Market Square area, one of the city’s main shopping zones, and found a small coffee bar. Ordering drinks and some food, they sat for a while in the open air, watching the locals go about their business.
‘You never say much about your army days Cole. I heard a rumour that you were once captures by the IRA. Is that true?’
Cole winced, and drank some more of his coffee. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Not sure,’ said Hedge.
‘Well, it’s mainly true. They were real mean bastards back in the day.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘What is this? You tell me something, so I have to tell you something.’
Hedge laughed. ‘That sounds fair to me.’
Cole downed the rest of his coffee in one gulp. He called the waitress over and requested a refill. Then he started to tell the story.
‘I was on a special operation, south of the border. That’s the Irish border, so it was quite illegal. We were a team of three, hunting down a suspected terrorist. He was apparently living in a small farmhouse in a valley not far from Dundalk. We found the dwelling, and burst in all guns blazing. We thought it was hilarious fun, but then we were young. The only problem was that it was a trap. They knew we were coming.’
Cole stopped talking for a moment while his coffee cup was refilled. The waitress moved out of earshot, and so he continued to recap the story.
‘One of my fellow soldiers was killed instantly. A bomb went off as he went through the front door. He ran in first and caught the full blast. It ripped both his legs off. It was a horrible sight, blood everywhere. Corporal Ball and I were both captured. They had a lot of fun with him before he eventually died.’
Hedge dropped his eyes to the table in front of him. He was starting to wish he had never asked the question. Cole noticed his discomfort, but continued anyway.
‘To cut a long story short, after over an hour of torture, my mate eventually gave up his name and rank. The terrorist leader was delighted to have broken him, and decided to celebrate by doing something appropriate, especially appropriate now that they knew his name. So they sliced his balls off with a blunt bread knife. The poor sod was screaming for about twenty minutes, before he passed away due to massive blood loss. Then they turned on me. I got beaten to a pulp, but gave them nothing. Not even my fucking shoe size.’
Hedge was looking at his friend. His face was ashen, and he was shaking his head in disbelief. He tried to imagine how he would have felt to be in a life or death situation like that. It didn’t seem possible that someone could come out of such an experience and still be a normal human being.
Cole smiled. ‘I’m a tough guy, but I don’t mind telling you that not for the first time in my life, I actually sat and pissed myself that night. Real, actual urine ran down my leg. But if you ever tell anyone that, I will of course deny it.’
Hedge laughed softly. ‘But you got away, obviously?’
‘They had me tied to a chair, with a hood over my head
, and a loaded pistol pointing at my brain. It was the classic IRA execution method. I had just a few more seconds to live. I felt the metal of the barrel on my temple, and then the guy holding the gun pulled the trigger. My heart stopped beating for a second, and I nearly passed out with the horror of it. But the firing mechanism clicked dry, and nothing happened. They all laughed. The man holding the pistol had deliberately not pumped a bullet into the chamber. He told me so, then they all laughed some more. Then he pulled the mechanism back, and loaded it properly. I felt the cold steel against my head for the second time. I knew that my time was up, and there was nothing I could do about it. Then I heard an enormous bang, and a four man SAS team burst into the house. Less than a second later, all the nasty guys were dead, apart from the ringleader. I couldn’t believe my luck. I had been rescued. My ordeal was over. Or at least I thought it was. One of the SAS team cut me free, and dragged me over to where they had the terrorist leader held down. The way they treated me, you would think I was one of the bad guys. Apparently they have very little respect for army personnel who get themselves captured by the enemy. Anyway, they put a pistol in my hand and pointed down at the one remaining terrorist, the gang leader. I shook my head, and suggested we take him back for questioning.
“Like hell we will,” said the SAS troop leader. “You will shoot this fucker, or I will shoot you”. So two important things happened to me that day, I shot a man in cold blood for the first time, and I promised myself that I would enter for SAS selection as soon as I got back to base.’
Cole finished the story and drank his coffee.
Hedge looked thoughtful. ‘Ok. I’ll give you that. Maybe being in the army is as bad as life at boarding school, almost.’
The tension in the atmosphere eased, and they both laughed. Quietly at first, but then they burst into hysterics. They were still laughing as they rose from the table and made their way back to the parked Mustang.
Chapter Thirty Three
‘Pull over here,’ the fat Cuban said to his driver.
He opened the back door of the Lacrosse and scanned the surrounding area with his eyes. They were in a small clearing, on the edge of a large park. There were no other vehicles visible. Seemingly it wasn’t a popular time of day to visit - too hot for most people.
‘Where is he?’ the fat Cuban said angrily. He kicked out with his left foot and a short length of broken tree root went flying into the undergrowth.
‘I said to meet at midday.’ He turned back towards the car. The driver had his window down. ‘What’s the exact time now?’
‘The driver checked his watch. ‘It’s ten past twelve.’
The fat Cuban scowled, and turned away. Just at that moment a young man walked into the clearing. He was short, maybe just over five feet tall. The man had a dark complexion. His appearance was of someone possibly from a country in Central America.
‘Are you Pedro?’
‘Yes. That’s me,’ replied the young man.
‘You’re late. We agreed noon.’
‘I’m sorry, but I had a problem with the local buses. They never seem to run on time.’
‘I’m not interested in bullshit excuses. Let’s get on with what we have to do.’
Pedro said nothing. He already knew that he wasn’t going to like this big, fat man. He made him nervous for some reason. The guy seemed angry, and unpredictable. But he had been given a job to do, and was being well paid for it.
The fat Cuban hauled a long, canvas bag out of the back of the Lacrosse.
‘Follow me,’ he said.
They walked across some open ground until they came to a dense clump of bushes.
‘The reason for our meeting today is that I have something to show you. It’s important that you pay careful attention. Lay down here.’
The fat Cuban kicked away a few rocks and then made himself comfortable in the long grass. Pedro hesitated for a moment, but then lay down nearby. The park in front of them stretched away, slightly downhill, into the distance.
The fat Cuban opened the canvas bag, and pulled out a long rifle. Pedro didn’t know much about guns, but he did recognise that it had a silencer on the end of the barrel.
‘This is a Heckler and Koch PSG1 sniper rifle. It has an effective range of eight hundred yards or so. I am an expert shooter. Would you like a demonstration?’
Pedro looked concerned. This wasn’t the sort of thing he had signed up for. He was essentially a driver. Large vehicles were his speciality. He knew very little about weaponry, and wanted nothing to do with hurting anyone.
‘No. I don’t need to see you firing a gun. Anyway, what has it got to do with me?’
‘I want you to be aware that I will be watching you at all times. So you must do exactly as you are told.’
The fat Cuban raised the rifle to his shoulder. Pedro lay quietly next to him. They were screened from sight by the thick bushes around them. The park wasn’t busy, but there were several people walking or jogging in the distance.
‘When you do the job we are paying you to do, I will be somewhere up high, holding this rifle. It will be loaded, as it is right now.’
Pedro swallowed hard. He wiped away a few beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead. It wasn’t a hot day. He was just worried about what he had got himself in to.
‘You are part of our organisation now. We call ourselves The Cell. This small group has been formed for a very important task. It’s a one-off job. Once we have successfully completed our mission, we can all go home, with more money than we started with. In your case probably more money than you ever had before.’
The fat Cuban laughed, but then suddenly changed and became deadly serious.
‘Some of us may not go home though.’
He pulled the rifle tight to his shoulder. Then, he laid the barrel on his hand, which was supported by his elbow resting on the grass surface. On a hiking trail, about five hundred yards in front of them, was a small group of schoolchildren. They were a mixture of boys and girls, all wearing the same maroon coloured sweatshirts. It was a very organised group, walking in two tidy rows. At the head of each line there was a taller person, one a man and one a woman. They were presumably the teachers in charge of the group. The fat Cuban panned the rifle along the line of children. He picked up several of them clearly in the sights of the rifle. At one point he settled the crosshairs on a small girl with two long pony tails hanging down beyond the back of her neck.
Pedro followed the line of the rifle, and suddenly became quite agitated. He turned his head towards the big man.
‘What are you doing? These are children. Leave them alone. I’m going, you can keep the money. I don’t want to be involved in anything like this.’
He started to lift himself off the ground. Just as he did so, the fat Cuban dropped the rifle to the ground, and grabbed hold of Pedro by his shirt. Then, with his free hand, he punched him hard in the face. The blow had a lot of force behind it, and the man’s hand was a considerable size. The impact was painful, and Pedro screamed, and put his hands up to his face. His nose had been split open, and blood was gushing from it.
The fat man looked menacing. There was anger in his eyes.
‘You are going nowhere, and you will do exactly as you are told. We know where you live, and we have pictures of your family. So, lie down and shut the fuck up.’
Pedro settled back down in the grass. His mind was racing, and he was frightened. He tried to wipe the blood off his face, but there was too much of it. His nose hurt like hell.
The Cuban was looking at him. ‘Anyway, did you think I was going to shoot a child? What, do you think I’m stupid? Am I some sort of monster?’
He shook his head slowly, and then picked up the rifle again.
‘Now watch carefully, but keep quiet.’
The fat Cuban pushed the weapon hard into his shoulder, and looked through the sights again. He knew exactly what he was looking for.
‘Yes,’ he whispered softly, ‘that will do nice
ly.’
About four hundred and fifty yards ahead of them, moving towards a small clump of trees, was a young man. He was dressed in a dark blue jacket and skin tight jeans. Judging by the clothes, he was probably no older than mid-twenties. He was walking a small dog. Pedro knew a little about dogs, as he had a Labrador puppy at home. This animal in the distance looked like a Cocker Spaniel, fully grown, but still no taller than around eighteen inches high.
‘See the guy in blue straight ahead,’ said the fat Cuban.
‘Yes,’ Pedro said nervously.
‘Well, keep your eyes on him.’
‘Don’t do it, please. Leave him be.’
‘I told you to shut up. Do you want another punch in the face? Anyway, don’t worry. He won’t feel a thing.’
The fat Cuban sniggered. Then he carefully took aim, and gently squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked slightly, but the noise of the bullet firing was heavily muffled. The silencer did its job well.
Pedro watched in horror, but to his surprise, the young man looked unhurt. He walked on for a few more paces, with the dog lead trailing him.
Then, suddenly, the man stopped moving forward. He turned round and looked at his dog. It wasn’t moving. In fact it had collapsed on the floor and lay quite still.
It was a long way off, over a quarter of a mile, but Pedro could make out the man trying to lift the dog back to its feet. Then he jumped back, looking at his hands. Pedro guessed that they would be covered in blood. The man stood up straight. He turned, looking in all directions to see where the danger could have come from. But he had no idea what he was looking for. All he knew was that one minute his pet was perfectly well, and now it lay dead in front of him. At that distance there was no chance of him spotting the two men lying behind the bushes.
The fat Cuban laughed.
‘Bloody dogs,’ he said, ‘always shitting everywhere.’
The Transamerica Cell: A fast paced, gripping, action adventure, conspiracy thriller, with a superb, breath-taking ending (Hedge & Cole Book 3) Page 13
