The Banker Who Died

by Matthew A Carter

  “Open your eyes, Stanley! Don’t worry, I’m going to fuck you too, handsome, when the time is right. And you know what that’s going to mean for you? Open your eyes, Stanley! Do you hear me? That’ll be it for you. Death. When you feel my cock in your ass, that’s going to be the end. On the one hand, you’ll probably be upset to be taking it up the ass. On the other hand, you’ll know that your suffering is almost over. So are you already looking forward to me fucking you? What do you think, McKnight?”

  Stanley was close to passing out, again. But he tried to fight through the pain. He didn’t look at Christine’s body. He didn’t think about anything but the fact that he had to live through the torture, no matter how terrible it was. He had to survive so he could get revenge. On his own, without help from anyone.

  There was no hope of salvation. It was simply an illusion. Stanley prepared for death, but the desire for revenge helped him endure the pain. It was as if he’d moved into a different reality. Lost track of time. He didn’t know how long it went on. Maybe several days, maybe several hours.

  Shamil dragged Stanley out of the tub and hit him several times with the electric shock, then he passed out. Christine’s body continued to hang in front of his eyes like a reminder: you must endure everything, survive to get revenge.

  The next time he came to his senses, Gagarin stood next to Shamil. Gagarin looked at Stanley as if he wasn’t a person, but an earthworm crushed beneath someone’s boot.

  “Well, friend,” said Gagarin, “how are things? I’ll say it again—you have a choice. More torture, or you tell the truth. Where’s Lagrange hiding? You’re in on it with him, right? If so, you’ll die easy. It’s up to you.”

  Stanley squinted and saw that Shamil and Gala were unpacking a case of surgical instruments.

  “Yeah, they’re going to cut you up into little pieces next.” Gagarin smiled, seeing the direction of Stanley’s gaze.

  Shamil began by slowly pulling the nails off Stanley’s thumb and forefinger with a pair of pliers. Blood poured down his mangled hand.

  “Wait, wait!” rasped Stanley.

  “What happened?”

  “Lagrange…I know where Lagrange is.”

  “So why did you wait so long to tell us, McKnight?”

  “Maybe he’s a masochist,” said Gala. “And kept quiet on purpose to prolong his enjoyment. I’ve met a few like that.”

  “So where is he?”

  “He’s in Cuba. I remember him saying once that he’s got a secret place in Cuba. A refuge, all set up. Where he could hide away.”

  “You believe that, Shamil?” Gagarin asked.

  “He’s lying, boss!” Shamil said, letting out a laugh.

  “How about you, Gala?”

  “I’m telling you, Stanley’s a masochist. He likes being tortured. Can I cut off his balls?”

  “I love my people’s enthusiasm.” Gagarin chuckled. “I agree. I think Stanley is lying to protect his partner.” Gagarin bent down and picked up a case with a drill from under the table.

  “Look what we’ve got here, Stanley. Nice drill, German quality. Bosch. The best company in the world. American drills are shit, right, Shamil? Black and Decker is garbage. But Bosch, now, that’s quality. Too bad the drill bit is only ten millimeters. In the nineties, I used twenty-five-millimeter bits. But this is all Shamil could buy in the local French supermarket. The frogs let me down completely.”

  Gagarin put the bit into the drill and passed the cord to Shamil, who plugged it into the socket.

  “I’ll make the first hole, then I have another conference call—Credit Suisse wants to sell me a capital protected note. Shamil will take over while I’m gone. I haven’t lost my touch, have I, Shamil?”

  “You’re a master, boss!”

  “Well, well! Nothing sweeter than drilling a hole in a traitor!” Gagarin pressed a button, and the drill began to spin wildly. Then, as if remembering something, he switched the drill off and thoughtfully pressed its still-rotating bit against Stanley’s chest.

  “When I was a kid, there was nothing worse than a traitor. I learned that with my mother’s milk. You know the Soviet tale about a little boy called Malchish-Kibalchish? Why am I asking? Of course you don’t know that old story. I’ll tell you.

  “Once upon a time, the bourgeoisie attacked a Soviet country beyond the Black Mountains. All the grown-ups went off to war, and only very young boys remained behind in the village. And when Red Army soldiers came for help, but found no one, Malchish-Kibalchish called on his young friends and led them off to fight. A fight to the death!

  “But one bad boy, named Baddun, decided to betray his comrades and his great Soviet country for a barrel of jam and a basket of cookies. Fucking bastard! The bourgeoisie captured Malchish-Kibalchish and put him through terrible torture to find out military secrets. But the boy laughed in their faces. The Red Army soon came and defeated the bourgeoisie, but it was too late. Malchish-Kibalchish had been killed. They buried him on a green hill by a blue river and placed a red flag over his grave.”

  Gagarin lifted the hand holding the drill and felt around for the start button with his finger.

  “And the tale about Malchish-Kibalchish ends like this, Stanley: ‘The ships pass by his grave and call out—hello, Malchish!’”

  The drill switched on again, and the bit sank deep into Stanley’s knee.

  “Pilots fly by his grave—hello, Malchish!”

  Stanley howled in pain. Gagarin pulled the drill out, picked a spot just above, and drilled down into the knee again.

  “Trains run by his grave—hello, Malchish!”

  Gagarin switched to the other leg and stuck the drill all the way in his other knee.

  “And scouts walk by—we salute you, Malchish!”

  Stanley screamed and passed out from the unbearable pain.

  “Look how easily he comes in and out! Shamil, take the drill. Your turn! Right there in the center of the knee. Perfect.”

  Chapter 49

  Consciousness returned slowly. Stanley felt like he was being carried, then as if he was floating in a small, fragile boat on a stormy sea.

  He manned the oars, trying to face the boat into the high waves, but he kept getting turned sideways. Christine sat in the stern of the boat. She wasn’t scared at all; she laughed infectiously.

  She was alive and beautiful, and she told Stanley not to worry, assured him that everything would be okay. All their misfortunes and difficulties would soon be behind them, with only joy and love ahead. Then the sea suddenly grew hard, as if covered with iron, and he was thrown from the boat. He hit his head, but didn’t lose consciousness.

  He found himself on a street full of people wearing light, casual clothes. He heard the ocean nearby, and the cars that passed him were out-of-date models from decades ago. The wall nearby was covered with a poster of a bearded man. That was Fidel Castro, thought Stanley, and remembered what he’d told Gagarin about Lagrange.

  Vengeance. He imagined placing the electrodes against Shamil’s ears, turning the dial of that evil, black machine. Drilling into Gagarin’s chest, smashing Lagrange’s skull with a hammer, and shooting Gagarin’s guards, the low-browed thugs.

  These were sweet illusions, but they helped him forget his suffering, his inhuman pain. For a little while he was lost to the world, but then Shamil came into the white room and doused him with freezing water from the bucket.

  Stanley’s whole body shook. He saw to his surprise that he wasn’t tied up at all.

  “How are the knees?” Shamil asked with a smile. “They hurt? You passed out so fast. Weak! That’s all right. Everything’s going to stop hurting soon. An end to your suffering. Rejoice! Viktor lost his patience, and he’s gone for good. You’re no use, and it’s time for you to die. But we’re going to have some fun first, just like I promised.”

  Shamil l
owered the zipper on his jeans and pushed them down. He bent over Stanley.

  “Now I’m going to fuck you, banker, and then choke you to death. Well, to be precise—you like precision, don’t you, banker?—I’m going to choke you and fuck you at the same time. After I kill you, I’ll hang you up next to your wife.”

  “Are you joking?” whispered Stanley.

  “You think this is funny, American? Let’s have a laugh together, then.”

  Stanley sighed. “Bend down.”

  “What?” Shamil couldn’t make out Stanley’s words.

  “Bend down,” Stanley said again, his words barely audible. “I’ll give you a kiss.”

  “You’ll do what?”

  “Give you a kiss…before the end.”

  “You’ll kiss me?” Shamil laughed and began to take off his jacket. “Go ahead, then! Where do you want to kiss me?” Shamil bent over Stanley. “Here you go, give me a kiss…”

  Shamil got on his knees, his jeans pushed down, his hands behind his back pulling off his jacket. He bent down lower and turned his cheek to Stanley.

  “Here you are, a bloody kiss. That’s such a turn on!”

  Stanley pressed his lips to Shamil’s cheek, then extended his tongue and ran it slowly down his executioner’s rough skin. Gathering all his strength, forgetting about his punctured knees, Stanley wrapped his arms around Shamil’s head, burying his face deep in the other man’s neck, and bit down hard, tearing at the pulsing vein beneath his mouth, not giving Shamil time to fight back.

  Stanley felt hot, salty blood pour over him, then he bit down into Shamil’s Adam’s apple, ripped it out with his teeth and spit it out, then bit down again on the spot where blood was gushing out, chewing on it deeper, almost choking, trying to breathe in fits and starts, snorting as the blood poured down his throat like molten lead. His hands still gripped Shamil by the neck.

  Shamil arched upward, gasped. His feet drummed on the ground. He tried to free his arms from the jacket trapping them. But Stanley tore at his throat again and again. Finally, Shamil’s struggles lessened. He arched up once more, twice, then lay still. The flow of blood trailed off.

  Stanley pushed the body off him and noticed the pain in the fingers missing their nails. He tried to get up and dropped immediately from the agonizing pain in his knees. He lay on his stomach and vomited up Shamil’s blood, slipping into unconsciousness for several minutes.

  When he became aware again, Stanley looked around. Bright-red blood ruined the purity of the white room.

  He tried to figure out where they had installed the camera the guards could observe him with. But he couldn’t see one.

  Stanley lay down next to Shamil’s body, resting a little and using his good hand to search the dead man. He pulled a gun out of Shamil’s holster, a heavy Stechkin. Wincing in pain, he checked to see if there were rounds in the clip and racked the slide, trying to figure out what to do next. The attack had taken a lot out of him. Stanley blacked out for a little while.

  When he woke, he decided it was time to get out, even with the risk of encountering guards, even if he had to crawl. He had to get out or die trying. He realized then, though, that he was still completely naked. Strange, thought Stanley, just a little while ago, when I was being tortured, I wasn’t worried about that at all.

  Suddenly, he heard the sound of steps approaching. He sat up, leaned against the wall, and raised the gun with shaking hands. He removed the safety and pointed the gun at the door of the white room.

  A moment later Biryuza appeared on the threshold. He was in a light-gray suit and a shirt in his favorite color, pink. He saw Stanley and froze. Gala came in after him and reached toward the holster under her jacket. Biryuza put out a hand to stop her.

  “Jesus.” Biryuza looked around the room in horror, at Shamil lying dead and Stanley naked, covered in blood.

  Stanley waved his guests in with the gun.

  “Step in and close the door,” he ordered.

  Biryuza obeyed, slowly. “Where the hell did you come from?” he asked, pronouncing each syllable distinctly.

  “From Disneyland.” Stanley tried to aim, but his hands shook so badly that the gun nearly fell to the ground.

  Once Biryuza saw his condition, he laughed in relief.

  “You know what they say about slugs? They always leave a trail of slime on their path. You planning on going far, Stanley?”

  “Home.”

  “Home?” Biryuza laughed. “You’re a fucking comedian. You’re staying here. Just look at his hands shaking, Gala. He’s so scared he’s about to shit himself.”

  “Death is close enough for me not to fear for my life,” whispered Stanley, trying to aim at Biryuza’s head.

  “A philosopher! Put a bullet in your head, Stan. You’ll feel better.”

  Stanley was silent, trying to settle his shaking hands, but the gun still wavered back and forth, inciting Biryuza’s mockery. He didn’t have much strength left. He could hold on for another minute, maybe two, and then he was going to drop the gun.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Gala quietly.

  “Kill him,” Biryuza said, and made a grab for the gun.

  Stanley shot first. The bullet hit Biryuza right between the eyes, and blood splashed onto the white wall behind him. He waved his hands in an absurd pantomime for a moment, then fell down dead.

  Gala pulled out her gun and leaped forward, shooting at Stanley nearly point-blank. He felt bullets burn into his arm and neck. He closed his eyes tight and shot in front of him.

  Silence fell over the room, and Stanley, deafened by the shots, finally opened his eyes. Gala lay wheezing on the floor, a bullet in her throat. She watched Stanley, unblinking, bloody bubbles coming out of her mouth.

  The noise of the guns had been ear-splitting, but no one had come to check on them. There were probably no other guards nearby. He put the gun on the ground with a shaky hand and crawled over to Shamil. He searched his pockets and found a pack of cigarettes. He took out a cigarette, which grew wet instantly with the blood from his hands. Stanley wiped his hands on Shamil’s clothes, then took out another cigarette and lit it.

  His head spun after the first drag. Stanley checked himself over. It looked as though the bullets had just winged him. Blood flowed from the bullet holes, but no faster than from his other wounds. He took a deep drag on the cigarette, down to the filter, and put it out in the pool of blood on the floor. Gala’s wheezing grew louder, then cut off. She gasped silently like a fish out of water, then grew still.

  “Okay, stay calm,” he told himself. “You need to get out. You have to. If you can’t walk, crawl.”

  So he crawled. He crawled over Biryuza’s body and flopped down next to him. He reached around for Biryuza’s right wrist and took his watch off. Then he sighed and crawled on.

  Every inch cost him greatly. He couldn’t use his legs because of his drilled knees, but he couldn’t use his hands fully, either, because of the torn fingers on his left hand.

  Stanley pushed off the floor with his right hand, scooting his stomach along the floor, resting after each push forward, then starting again. He put the gun in front of him, then dragged himself toward it. Put the gun in front. Dragged forward again. When he crawled over the threshold of the white room, he banged his knee against the frame and grimaced in pain.

  Out in the hallway, he saw a staircase going down. He reached the top and looked down.

  He could roll down, but there was a risk he’d break his already maimed legs. He lay on the top step, his head hanging over it, and tossed the gun down. The gun bounced down the stairs and hit the door, which seemed to lead to the staff quarters. Then Stanley began to slowly descend the stairs, supporting his body weight with his one good hand.

  The wounds that had just begun to close over opened up again. Stanley was leaving a trail of blood behind him.
Each movement caused him horrific pain. Sometimes he banged his head into the wall, and came close to passing out from the pain.

  He finally made it to the door. He tried to push it open with his forehead, but finally had to twist himself into an awkward curve to reach the handle. He climbed out of the house and onto the porch.

  Stanley saw several cars near the house, but they were all parked on a gravel lot. “Oh God, not that,” moaned Stanley. But he put the gun out in front of him and kept pushing forward, scratching his chest, shoulders, and hips on the small stones.

  With great effort, he made it to the first car, a black Bentley cabrio. With the last of his strength, Stanley did a fast push-up off the floor, reached the door handle, hung on it, and fell back down.

  He tried again. Fell down again. Tried again, and this time the car door opened. Stanley used his good arm to pull his body in. Howling in pain, he shut the door behind him. The key was on the dashboard.

  He put his hands and head on the wheel and took a breath, then started the engine and pushed down on the gas pedal. He almost blacked out from the sharp pain in his knee. The car jerked forward and stopped. He tried pressing down on the gas with his left knee, but that was even worse.

  Stanley wept in despair; there was no way out.

  After a few minutes, he calmed down. Looked around. The pier was directly in front of him, half hidden by the branches of pine trees. A small motorboat was tied up there. He bit his lip, opened the door, and fell out of the car. Then he began to crawl toward the pier.

  Now pine needles and gravel were working their way into his wounds. His knees were swollen and bleeding. After moving forward a foot or two, he had to rest, losing consciousness several times, then waking up to crawl forward.

  After hours of crawling, he made it to the wooden pier. If someone saw his wormlike movements, he thought, they probably wouldn’t even think there was a human intruder on the pier. He started to laugh, harder and harder, until his laughter turned into tears. Then he howled like a homeless dog. He forced himself to calm down, but the last few feet were the hardest—the planks of the pier were old, and a long splinter lodged in his skin as he crawled along.