by Stuart Keane
“Sure…”
Kieran began to walk away. Heather looked up and he stopped.
“Kieran…You didn’t share this bed with me, did you? I was so tired I think I collapsed straight away.”
Kieran smiled. He gazed into her eyes. “No I didn’t, I was a perfect gentleman. Do you not remember I gave you the bed? Your bed is off limits, you said so yourself. Now get ready, breakfast in five minutes.”
With that Kieran left the room. The door closed behind him.
Heather lifted the blanket. Nothing unusual. She felt heat between her thighs. She was horny. Which was impossible. She never felt this way. In all her years she had never been the sexual type. She enjoyed sex as much as the next person but she wasn’t obsessed with it. She didn’t even masturbate. What was happening to her? She realised that didn’t even find him that attractive anyway. So why had she suddenly felt so aroused?
Heather stood up and put on her trousers. Then remembered the dream and blushed bright red. She pulled her jumper on and put on her trainers. She took three minutes to open the door to the canteen. It was the longest three minutes of her life.
***
Delta, the man who’d been watching Heather and Kieran on his monitor, hadn’t expected that. He had just hoped that his subjects would fall in love. Everyone loves a good romance, and it seemed that Heather was falling for her suitor. You couldn’t script stuff like this.
Excellent.
Delta sat back in his chair. Unlike his competitors he was playing the long game. Not too much at once. Slowly, slowly wins the race. He smiled.
Such stupid quotes. So apt though.
The situation had arisen where tact was the best tactic of war here. One player had already failed miserably. He had gone in guns blazing, literally, and he was now out of the game, permanently.
It couldn’t happen to him. It wouldn’t.
So he was taking it slow.
He poured himself a drink and relaxed.
Everything was running smoothly.
For now. Things were about to get interesting.
TWENTY-TWO
Rupert’s leg felt dead, the blood had stopped flowing several minutes earlier. His legs were bent at the knee over the chair, a chair that was now becoming slippery and very uncomfortable.
Looking around the room, Rupert couldn’t think of what to do. Praying had ceased at the sound of the machete being sharpened. That was eight minutes ago according to the clock on his lounge wall. Time waited for no man, regardless of his plight. Rupert sighed.
His captor had laid out an arsenal of weapons on the table beside him. For half an hour he’d been methodically positioning the weapons on the table in precise order, from smallest to largest. This was a man that took pride in his work. Rupert hadn’t been focused on the entire display, but the largest weapon he’d noticed was a broadsword. It looked like something out of an Excalibur movie. The blade looked menacing, even from across the room.
The man had not spoken to Rupert for the entire process. Rupert hadn’t tried to initiate conversation. The room was devoid of any sound except that of the man working on his tools. Throughout the whole process the red leather bowling bag remained untouched. It spiked Rupert’s curiosity simply because bowling balls are not weapons - not in the standard context anyway. The guy blatantly had a fetish for blades, which made the bowling ball that more mysterious.
“What are you going to do to me?” asked Rupert, resigned to his fate. It seemed the right thing to do. The near-silence was becoming unbearable.
The man turned to him. His smile had vanished. In his hand he held a corkscrew. The light shone off its blade. Such a simple household item looked like a device designed for pure evil in the guy’s hand. He spun it between his fingers.
“I haven’t mapped out my plan yet. You see, people pay me the big bucks to do what they want. So I have time to burn. I have to wait until I get the call. Then I can do what is instructed of me. Until then, well, it’s a fucking mystery, if you ask me.”
Rupert cringed. The fear was becoming unbearable. His head started to sag. Looking to his left, he noticed a pair of knitting needles in a basket. They’d belonged to his mother. He couldn’t remember seeing them before, but right now they glowed golden like a huge beacon of hope. Rupert knew it was his only chance.
But how could he get to them?
Rupert started to let his head sag down again. He didn’t know if his idea would work. He pretended to be dozing off. He collapsed even further down in his chair. He couldn’t see what his captor was doing.
The man walked over to Rupert and slapped him, hard, across the face. The strike took Rupert by surprise and knocked him off balance. The chair toppled with him still strapped to it. He landed on his side with a heavy thump. His arm, twisted behind him, was crushed under him. Rupert yelped in pain. He could feel his body weight shifting him down further, crushing his arm even more. Rupert tried to push himself up, but with his arms tied he was severely restricted. Suddenly he was upright again and the man steadied the chair with Rupert still on it. The scared man looked up at his adversary’s pale face, which was inches from his own. The smile returned.
“No sleeping on the job, now. It’s not nearly as much fun when you’re comatose.”
His tormentor patted Rupert on the face three times and backed away. He turned back to his weapons.
“I need water,” Rupert gasped.
The man’s shoulders visibly shrugged. For a moment, he remained still. Rupert wondered if he’d pushed his luck too far, then the knifeman walked into the kitchen, presumably succumbing to Rupert’s request. Rupert watched him go.
When he was out of sight, he shuffled his right arm and placed the solitary knitting needle into his waistband, at the back. It had been fortunate that he’d managed to grab the item, since it had been wedged in a ball of wool. The only reason he had it now was because his captor has moved him with such force that the needle had pulled free through no effort of his own. Making sure it was in firmly in place, he moved his hand back, covering the weapon. Seconds later, his captor returned with a bucket of water. He walked in Rupert’s direction.
“Water? How can I drink from—?”
The man launched the water at Rupert’s face. It rocked him like a punch to the face, splashing over his features, shoulders and legs. The shock of the cold water’s dousing shook Rupert out of his fatigue. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his briefs were soaked, his position on the chair became more tenuous because it was slippery. He couldn’t place his feet on the wooden floor without them sliding all over the place. The man laughed and threw the bucket into the corner, then turned back to the weapons.
Rupert spat water from his mouth. He breathed out heavily.
“You’re an arsehole.”
The torturer turned back to Rupert.
“You really are trying to get a rise out of me, aren’t you? Let’s get one thing perfectly clear. You won’t succeed. I’ve fought in wars and seen sights that would make your eyes bleed. I am talking total annihilation. Countries that aren’t bound by government ruling and treaties and the threat of nuclear war. Countries that are pure breeding grounds for incomprehensible evil. Ever seen a man stabbed in the eye? I have, and it’s not a nice thing to see at close quarters. I could have reached out and touched the guy’s exposed optic nerves. Ever seen a man holding his own colon? I have. Ever seen your best friend of seven years torn to shreds by a hand grenade? I think you get my point. Nonetheless, getting a rise out of me just isn’t going to happen. You can rib me all you want, you’re wasting your time.”
Rupert grimaced. He needed to get a rise out of this guy, to get him off guard.
The victim realised he might need to go deep, to try to reach somewhere reserved for late night blasphemy and sin.
“Your friend… Tell me, what was his name?”
No answer.
“C’mon, you must remember his name, what with him being your best friend and all?�
�
No answer.
“You failed him, you know. He’s dead because you got sloppy and you weren’t prepared. Now you have to live with that.”
The dangerous man turned towards Rupert. What showed in his eyes could only be described as uncontrolled rage. No tears or remorse, just soul-sucking anger and hatred built up from years of guilt and torment. His arms bulged with muscle and sinew. He was shaking with fury, leaning against the desk, which was shaking too, pushed by his huge frame.
Rupert knew he had made a huge mistake.
Then he saw the gun. It was in the man’s right hand and rising slowly. Rupert’s vision suddenly became focused and alert. He knew he was screwed. His arms were tied, he couldn’t run anywhere. The knitting needle was useless to him now. Why had he pushed the guy’s buttons? What was that expression? Poking the bear? The gun was aimed at Rupert. It was fitted with a silencer, elongating its black barrel, the single hole in its business end near his face. Rupert closed his eyes.
Time stood still.
Then things happened all at once. The gunman fired, the bullet striking the floor at Rupert’s feet. The silenced ‘whap’ of the shot accompanied Rupert’s foot moving out of the way. The bullet hadn’t hit him. He smiled with relief until he saw the man approaching. He smashed the butt of the gun into Rupert’s face. The pain was immediate and agonizing. It coursed through Rupert’s veins, muscles and skin like fire. He wanted to scream but couldn’t. He knew his nose was broken. His body was trying to ignore the pain. Seconds later, the man stepped back and punched Rupert in the face hard. The force knocked Rupert so that he bounced backwards, rocking on the chair before it tipped over and fell forward with his weight. The man punched Rupert in the face twice more, then head-butted him too. Rupert was only just on the verge of consciousness. Blood started to pour down his face. He felt his eyes starting to swell. The man grabbed him by the throat.
“You don’t fucking know a fucking thing about Billy! Don’t you dare mention his name! You cunt. Fuck you!”
With that, the man struck Rupert in the face once more and let go of his throat. Rupert was groggy and moaning in pain. Shock took over and Rupert started to lose consciousness. He tried to stay awake, but the pain was such that he had to let his body take control.
Rupert had gotten his rise.
But at what cost?
As he lapsed into unconsciousness he heard a chirping. It sounded like a phone ringing.
***
Charlie had resumed his viewing in some comfort. Comfort in knowing that he was one of the final three competitors left in the game. He was one step closer to the prize of champions.
The prize of being named an exclusive member of The Company.
To his knowledge, only three men had passed this test before. The Game had been running for nearly twenty years now, taking place every five. To be an exclusive member of The Company, as per this ritual, was really an honour. He knew the stakes were high, and that pretty much anything in his life could be at stake, but he knew it was worth it. To be one of a few select men in the world who can say, “I won,” would truly be the greatest achievement in his life.
He sipped his drink and raised a glass to his integrity, his ability and his confidence in winning. And to his everlasting ability to impress himself and the people around him. He finished his glass and poured himself a refill. He checked his screen and noticed that Bravo had made several high value purchases. His balance had racked up one point two million pounds in debt.
“Holy shit, Bravo, what the fuck did you do?”
Charlie panicked at first. Maybe Bravo had gone ‘all in’ which, in The Game rules, meant you were shit out of luck. ‘All in’ meant you gambled victory on everything in a very short space of time. The aim of The Game was to win by being the last man standing. Killing your Choice was taboo. You never overburdened them and got them killed. You teased them, tortured them and brutalised them, but, since you have control, you can stop the punishment at any moment. Going ‘all in’ meant that Bravo had sent some protection in to help his target for fear of loss. This had never happened in The Game before, such action didn’t go down well with The Sponsors, despite forming the subject of epic TV.
The whole point of The Game was to pick someone you know can win. It’s why Alpha had failed, he expected too much from his Choice and it got him killed. It was either that or he’d made an error.
And people in Charlie’s line of work didn’t make errors.
To his surprise, reading the call log, that is exactly what it was. A system error, which meant anything could be headed into Bravo’s battleground. Charlie smiled. One more down, he thought, which means that I am in the final two, the final itself. The Game is mine for the taking!
Then he heard the gunshot.
Or what sounded like a gunshot. It sounded muffled, like a silencer had been involved. He checked his monitor.
And there it was.
It had come out of nowhere. Gunnar was standing over Reverend Shaw with a silenced Beretta in his hand. He recognised the handgun, since he owned three of his own. They were three feet away in a display case. The high-def screen showed the smoke still wafting out of the hot barrel. Charlie dropped his glass to the carpet, making a loud thudding sound. The amber liquid poured out and soaked into the lush fibres. Charlie pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled. Gunnar was walking back towards the table, having doled out a beating to Reverend Shaw.
The phone was answered.
“Gunnar, what the fuck are you doing?” Charlie yelled. “You know you can’t shoot the Choice, it’s against the rules and Game policy! You may have just cost me The Game!”
“Listen, dickhead, I don’t care how much you’re paying me. This guy just got personal, real personal and I had to shut him up. For your information, I didn’t shoot him. I fired the gun to warn him. He will be fine, if a little shocked and scared. Okay?”
“No, not okay. You scared the shit out of me, you should have called and run it by me first.”
“I don’t answer to anyone. Fuck you and your rules. You know what, fuck this contest as well. You want me to do your bidding? Fine. You pay me another fifty grand to deal with this grade A prick. I’m a man of my word, but I need extra convincing. Otherwise I might do something I might regret.”
Charlie paused. He wasn’t used to insubordination like this. Normally he would fire anyone who crossed him. He remembered firing someone for bringing him lukewarm coffee once. The problem was, Gunnar had him over a barrel. Feeling his inner turmoil brewing, Charlie bit his lip.
“Fine. Make it sixty grand to take it slow. I don’t want any fuckups. And wind your neck in, it’ll be worth it eventually.”
“Pleasure doing business with you. Now, what were your demands?”
Charlie smiled.
TWENTY-THREE
“Is everything okay?”
Kieran posed the question to Heather over breakfast. Heather had hardly touched the food on her plate and was sitting in quiet contemplation. She was looking at her eggs with no real thoughts in her head. Kieran was dressed in a jumper and trousers for the first time. No more naked flesh on display. Thoughts of last night’s dream returned. Shivering, Heather felt awkward, flushed and uncomfortable.
“Heather?”
She looked up. “Yes, what?”
“Are you okay? You’re quiet. It’s worrying me.”
“It’s nothing. I’m just thinking about things. Don’t worry about me.”
Heather went back to staring at her plate. She resumed her silent vigil. The egg yolk burst as she poked it with a fork.
Kieran grabbed her plate of food and moved it to get her attention. Heather looked up in frustration.
“What?”
“Heather…Look, if something is bothering you I need to know. Our plan today is to leave here, which is pretty safe. It’s probably a bad idea, but we’ll run out of food eventually, so we need to progress. Who knows what this place has in store for us once we
’ve gone through those doors? I can’t trust you if there’s some women issues or something like that bothering you. This isn’t the real world, you can’t bury your head in the sand here, okay?”
Heather stood up and threw her plate across the room. It shattered against the wall. Kieran looked at her, puzzled. “You want women’s issues? There you go! Don’t you dare fucking speak to me like that again! You’re a sexist prick!”
“Sit down, Heather…”
“Go fuck yourself—”
“—Fuck’s sake, Heather, stop overreacting…sit down.”
Heather stopped and looked at Kieran. The blue eyes just seemed jaded now. She felt no attraction to him. This morning she was ready to jump his bones, but now, there was no spark. She thought that was strange. After a moment, she sat down again.
Kieran looked at Heather. “Is everything okay?”
Heather shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose so. I didn’t get much sleep.”
“I apologise, those sacks aren’t the comfiest in the world.”
A faint smile turned the corners of Heather’s lips. Kieran smiled too, the spark returning to his eyes. “You sure there isn’t anything else? You can tell me.”
Heather shook her head. “There’s a time and a place. We need to go.”
Kieran nodded. “Sure? Final offer?”
Heather stood up. “Let’s go, time’s a wasting.”
Kieran smiled. “Good. Now, I’ve packed us a bag each. We really only need one, but I thought if we have two it gives us more supplies and space to scavenge if need be. Each bag has ample food and drink, enough for a few days. There’s one change of clothes each and some makeshift bedding. Nothing special, but enough for us to get by. There’s the chance we may need to use our body heat if we don’t find somewhere warm. Considering your episode just now, is that okay with you?”
Heather didn’t say anything. She nodded.
“Good. Right, I suggest we use this string and nail it to the wall here.” Kieran pointed to a nook just inside the door frame. Its snug proportion to the door guaranteed security for the nail and the string itself. “We can then trail it behind us. If the shit hits the fan we can always find our way back here. It might not be as safe as it was before, but it’s somewhere we know we can survive for prolonged periods. Also, I’ve packed two knives for weapons. Just in case – we don’t want to be caught short. I think that’s everything. Any suggestions?”
