by Daniel Birch
I wondered about Spade every night. I’d hoped he had survived but I knew the possibilities were slim. I wondered every night about Emma. How was she? Was she showing yet? I had to get home, I had to get home to my baby, and my baby to be.
I was in a real shithole. It was daytime, there was a small window at the top of my cell, it had no bars or glass, just an open vent really with light shining in from the outside. Then, as the guards stormed into my room and picked me up, I saw the man next door as they dragged me out. He did an action with his fingers across his chest. I realised it was a cross he was doing on his chest, the way Rocky used to before each fight in his films.
Fuck.
I didn’t get a good look at the guy in the cell next door. I only really saw that he was bald and wearing rags. How long had he been there?
After being sat back in the room he had only been in hours earlier, Tommy awaited the next batch of treatment. He was physically exhausted. His shoulder had at least stopped bleeding from the bullet he had taken off Trigg, though, but his knee was numb after having a nail hammered into it earlier, and his face was swollen, bruised and bloodied.
As Tommy’s eyes wandered the room he could see two guards stood near the door. Then, as he looked to his left he noticed the table.
‘Oh shit, oh fuck me, what the fuck’s all that there for?’ Tommy asked as his eyes examined the sharp and scary instruments on the table. The table reminded him of a surgeon’s table of apparatus before doing an operation.
The guards just talked quietly in their own language. Walking in slowly a new man appeared. He was a short man around 5ft and a half. He was wearing beige camouflage combat trousers with a green vest. Tommy sniggered as he noticed the awful moustache the man had with the equally dodgy side-parting in his hair. He had a clipboard with some paper attached and a map, which he placed on the table of doom.
The man pulled up a chair and sat about a foot away from Tommy.
‘You sleep well, Tommy?’ the man asked, smiling.
Now Tommy knew this was the same voice who spoke to him last night. ‘Like a baby, thanks to your guards playing football with my head. Listen, my shoulder and my knee are fucking killing me. Is there any way you could have a doctor look at me, please?’
The man talked to one of the guards, who then walked out of the room.
‘It is being dealt with, Tommy. Now I have some questions. They are quite simple. Before I ask, I want you to think.’
‘Water, I need some water.’ Tommy was so thirsty; the heat was becoming unbearable for him. He had a fever and the room felt like a greenhouse.
‘Of course,’ the man said. He opened up his own water flask and gently poured some water into Tommy’s mouth. ‘Not too much, not too much,’ he said as the water spilled out of Tommy’s mouth and down his neck.
Feeling a little more composed, Tommy breathed and gathered himself again. ‘Right, fuck it, what do you want to know?’
The next ten to fifteen minutes I explained to Mr. Haircut 2007 that our mission was very simple.
A Black OP.
We had been ordered to check out a few huts which, according to our intelligence, could have been holding some Iraqi militants who, the day before, had blown up a convoy of UN Red Cross trucks carrying medical supplies. The powers that be were angry and wanted badly the people who had done it. It was a five man team, headed by the field ops expert, Trigg. I explained to Haircut that I and some of my crew had been fucked over somehow by our own man.
I told him the truth. It was not ‘good intelligence’ I was giving. It was the truth, though, nevertheless. It had no bearing on the war, was totally useless information, and he knew it. Mr Haircut proceeded to ask me about bombing routes, what my next mission was. How the fuck was I supposed to know that? I explained that my kind was treated like mushrooms where it came to Intel, fed shit and kept in the dark. I knew one thing and one thing only, orders.
They decided to torture me anyway, whether it was for more info or even for some sadistic fun on their part, who knows? I was tortured for roughly three days. I was punched, kicked and sometimes even bitten.
Believe it or not that was just for starters. When the guard came back who was supposedly finding someone to treat my shoulder, he only brought back a knife. The knife was glowing red and I knew it was red hot. I braced myself for the inevitable. Mr. Haircut stuck the blade into my wound sending me into shock. He said that the burn would close the wound. I suppose I was lucky, though, the bullet had apparently gone straight through and when I’d passed out from the pain of the burning, I at least had a rest for a while.
I remember on the third day of me being processed, the man was asking me questions again to which I had no answer, and I really didn’t.
I had not eaten for a few days and my physical strength was…well, not good at all.
I was under the impression that Mr Haircut was getting fed up with me. I really had nothing to tell him and I thought he was starting to sense it too. He threatened to take me to a village nearby where our bombs had killed many women and children weeks earlier. He strangled me as he shouted ‘imagine what they would do to you if I took you there’. Again, though, I had nothing. I was beginning to think that maybe if I just lied about something it might keep them happy, but then thought if it was checked out maybe they would kill me for lying. I was getting desperate.
It was getting serious now. It became apparent that these men were fishing for something in particular. He was asking me about different routes of my company, which I didn’t know. After taking off two of my fingernails with a weird scalpel-like instrument and then rubbing the wounds with salt, the man stabbed me through my left hand. Yes, I felt it, but to be honest after having my hands tied so tightly for so long, I had lost a lot of circulation in my hand so I guess it didn’t hurt as much as it should have. I was then released from the chair and thrown on the floor where Mr. Haircut and three more guards threw me about and played football with my head and body, repeatedly kicking stamping and punching me.
It became evident to me that these men were not proper military - some bullshit little faction fighting their own war with their own cause.
Unfortunately for me, they had struck gold in capturing what they called an ‘infidel’.
Chapter Eleven
It was my fourth consecutive day of torture, I knew that much. I didn’t know how long I’d been held captive for sure though.
I had started to get my wits back a little and realised I was in the throes of death. I’d heard that during torture the trick for the assigned torturer was to find the sweet spot. That spot where they know if they hurt you there that you’ll squeal like a pig. The thing is I really didn’t have a high threshold for pain, I mean for God’s sake I’m scared of the dentist, so the thought of somebody torturing me is enough to make me want to close my eyes and call for my mummy. I know what you’re thinking, coward right? Well I’m no hero. Id’ rather be a live coward then a dead hero any day so call me a coward all you want, I’ll be that happy coward with two arms, two legs and a heartbeat, thank you very much. The thing is, sat there, in that chair, being hit from all angles with God knows what, I started to anticipate the hits.
I was, in some weird way, building up resilience.
The hits still hurt, but the pain was more … I don’t know … more diluted I guess. This is when I thought in my brain I could be in the shit because, surely, if I wasn’t feeling pain then I must be dying. A prospect I was beginning to accept.
I had enjoyed a slight break. They had left me alone for roughly two hours. In that time I began to reflect, take everything in. I began to think to myself ‘okay, this might be the place I’m going to die’.
I was drenched in my own sweat and urine. I was in pain, but a lot of my body was numb. I thought that even if they untied me right now I couldn’t even walk out of here never mind run.
I had a few moments to pray. I had never been religious. Not ever.
My Grandmother
had been a Catholic, God rest her soul, but I’d never bought into it. It’s kind of funny though that when you’re at death’s door how much you actually start to hope something is out there. I was begging in my own mind for help, from God knows where, crying out for some sort of hope, pleading, that I wouldn’t die here. Not here, not like this.
Upon Haircut’s return I noticed he had brought in a video camera, along with a tripod. His film crew were mostly carrying AK47s, though, so I think it was a fair assumption that they weren’t from Sky News.
Haircut sat down. ‘You will go on TV.’
Always straight to the point these fuckers.
‘Like fuck I will,’ Tommy snarled.
‘You will. You will make video. You will say what we tell you to say.’
‘Afraid not, absolutely not. No fucking way. I’ll kick, I’ll scream, I’ll tell them everything you’ve done. Fuck you, fuck you.’
There was no way I was going on film. No fucking way. Trigg and his goons would have loved that. ‘Nope, I ain’t begging to these fucks,’ I thought, even if they kill me. In fact, at that moment, death would have been quite a fucking release.
Mr. Haircut was raving mad. He shouted at the guards who pointed their guns at me. I laughed, foolishly. Haircut un-holstered his side arm, a desert eagle I think. It was probably mine that they had taken off me.
I felt the business end of the gun pressed against the side of my head. It was cold. He screamed in his own language.
I visualised my own brains flying out of the side of my head as the bullet penetrated my skull. I saw in my mind my own dead body on the floor as the cavity at the back of my head seeped out blood mixed with brain matter. I remember saying to myself ‘now it’s time to be afraid, and it’s okay to be afraid.’
I breathed in slowly. I remember the sweat dripping down my forehead into my eyes. I tried to clench my hands but they hurt too much, I then closed my eyes.
I heard the safety being taken off, and then I heard the click. It was so strange because I had flashes, much like you see in films, flashes of my life, a kind of mix tape full of shit I’d done wrong, shit I’d done right, and even some random shit. It sounds crazy but it was all in a split second too.
But most of all I remembered Emma, oh Emma. I fucking love her. I remembered Trigg, that bastard, what had he done? That bastard!
Nothing happened.
They all laughed and joked in their native tongues as I cried.
One thing that will stay with me forever is that sound, the click of that gun. There may have not have been loud noise but, for me, that quiet clicking was deafening, and it echoed through my soul.
Chapter Twelve
How long had I been here? Fuck knows. My mind said weeks but my body said months.
The torture had calmed down the last few days. My body clock told me it was around 8 in the evening. I noticed my neighbour had vanished from the cell next door. Had he been released? Been killed? I didn’t know the man, but God knows I hoped he’d been released.
Waking and then managing to stand to my feet I noticed my hands were not bound. It felt good to stand but the sheer effort was tiring and I sat again, and stood, then sat again. I had to save my strength. I sat, composed, for the first time in a while. I thought of one thing and one thing only - Trigg.
Why did he do it? Why? We could have worked it out. He’s so fucking dead. I swear he’s so fucking dead.
Gonna deal with you Trigg, gonna deal with you.
I replayed the last few years, key incidents between myself and Trigg. I tried to understand the reason for his betrayal. I couldn’t think properly. My mind was full, my feelings were overwhelming me, I cried, then I cried some more, I felt broken, I was an emotional wreck.
Maybe I did deserve to die. Maybe Trigg was doing the right thing betraying me, but the reason I wanted to get out of the life was to become a good man again, the whole gangster shit was grinding me down. But Trigg didn’t get that, he loved the lifestyle and wanted to go and make big money with the ex-military come criminals who ran the crime outfit known to those who knew about it as X Company.
I was lost in self pity. Part of me longed for death, albeit a quick one. I remember thinking to myself ‘Please just let this fucking shit end’.
It was right then, at that precise moment that something inside me snapped. A change in me I hadn’t felt in a very long time. I felt anger.
When I am angry I am dangerous.
But it was this anger which would keep me sharp, keep me focused, get me outta this shit. Needless to say, my first thoughts were that I needed to stay alive, and when I got out of the shit I was in, not if but when, my business would be strictly revenge. Pure fucking volcanic revenge, I remember thinking that people were gonna have to re-write the meaning of the word after what I was gonna do.
‘Bring the pain, you fuckers,’ I said in my mind.
Now I had never been the hardest of guys, nothing close to some whom I knew, but I knew, I always knew, I had a few things my peers didn’t have - brains and, more importantly, resilience. I could take the hits and get back up, not just physically but mentally too.
I remembered the foster parents dumping me when I was younger. Never bothered me in the slightest. Missing out on the football team at school. Again, I felt nothing. Even when I was older, if I ever missed out on anything or was wronged in some way, I picked myself up and kept moving forward. It was a strength I had learned, a sort of ‘never let stuff beat you’ type of thing. It was fair to say not much ever did. I was always strong willed.
It was that will, that sense of sureness of myself and knowing my own mind that led me to challenge the ways things were shaping up. I had to challenge it. I was sure that my beliefs were right and didn’t give a damn what Trigg thought.
I had picked myself up emotionally, I had told myself that I would try and escape. There must be a way, I thought, there just has to be. I could handle a weapon so, if I could just play possum and get one of the guard’s guns, I could get out, I was sure of it.
My new-found enthusiasm put me in good spirits. I curled up and thought it best I get some rest. I just hoped my positive mind was still present in the morning. I thought of music in my head, I was a right music nut. I loved all sorts from rock and rap to even, dare I say, some old cheesy stuff which I would never admit to to my friends. At that moment as I laid there, I had my scheming mind in motion, going through ways I could get out without dying, whilst humming different tunes.
I had been asleep for a little while and heard my door go. I was getting some food. They had given me food everyday, if you could call it that. Some days I was basically given chickenfeed, some days I got a little meat. But I couldn’t believe my luck.
It had gone quiet in the place that night. Usually you heard all sorts of shit going on, guards talking, vehicles coming and going.
But it had been quiet for hours.
When the guard came into my cell and offered me what looked like a cooked meal…well I nearly cried, seriously. If they had just offered me food I would have probably done anything they asked! Ok so it wasn’t a steak with veg and mashed potatoes, but damn, to me this rice and weird sauce shit was the fucking business, the best thing in months.
The guard looked happy as I ate, I had seen him before. He was looking at me as I finished the meal in what was probably a new world record for eating quickly. Once I finished he took my plate.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ I said with a full mouth, because at this point table manners had gone right out the fucking window.
‘Thank you,’ he said back. Thank me? I didn’t get why he thanked me, but this dude seemed ok. By now anyone who didn’t throw me a beating was ok.
Walking closer to me, he looked like he wanted to say something.
He ‘ummed’ and ‘arred’ as I could see him struggling to find the right words.
He sat down in front of me, placing his rifle on the ground. I noticed he had a tasty looking grenade on his b
elt, along with a side arm, which looked like a Desert Eagle or Glock 9. I tried not to stare at his weapons.
I wanted them…badly.
‘You not bad man,’ were his words. He continued ‘I from family, big family.’
‘I from family too,’ I said, Ok, I was lying, but I was trying to humour this guy.
‘Sister? I have two sisters, and one come to me, she come to me and say the English man army help with water of well. Now my sister have water, so I feel bad for you, my friend. You not all bad. This thing, it business to them, business. I feel bad. You know you will die here. I’m feeling bad for you.’
Now I know this motherfucker meant well, but shit, talk about ruining my morning. Saying I was going to die there was probably not the best way to get into my good graces, even if he thought ‘you not bad man’, fucking prick.
I nodded at him politely, he stood and I could tell he was deep in thought.
He came closer, he put a bottle of water next to me, he said ‘drink, then hide. If they find I give water they get very mad’.
‘I will, I will,’ I promised. ‘Thank you sir, thank you,’ I added. I could tell this guy genuinely felt bad for me, the meal, the water. It was the nicest thing anyone had done for me in months.
He turned and started to walk to the door. I stood up slowly and walked to the door with him.
‘Thank you again,’ I mentioned. ‘Your friends? They not here tonight?’ I asked as I couldn’t help but notice how quiet it was.
He stood facing me at the door ‘No, outside some of them. We have three outside on guard all time. We have one asleep downstairs in truck. Ha, we need sleep but if get caught we in trouble, ha.’
‘Ha-ha.’ Ha-ha indeed, as I laughed with him he hadn’t noticed me looking around scanning the area, scanning for other men with my restless eyes. He kept laughing and everything inside me said ‘kill him! Do it now while you have the chance’, but I was weak and couldn’t have a long fight should it come to it. But now was all there would ever be.
