There was a pattern to this torture and there was a pattern to events unseen in the darkness too. He knew he was in Shad Thames, but the information had not proved especially useful whilst being bound up like this. But it did give him a reference point. He could visualise Shad Thames, the cobbled streets, the proximity of the old river and the high walkways between the old reclaimed industrial buildings. Sometimes Dan imagined his escape, pictured himself running along the cobbled streets and blending into the crowds over by Tower Hill. He falsely imagined the city air being as sweet as the scent of the forest and the thrilling sensation of running with adrenaline coursing through his veins. The reference point gave him a chink of hope, a glimpse of freedom. And there was another clue for him; the increasing heat and the noises of the machines above, which at first he thought of as night storage heaters or hot air machines. Now he had figured out their purpose. He came to the conclusion that he was being kept in the newspaper offices, hence the enormous redundant printing machine in his cell, which The Daily must have used when it started, and the warmth from the machines above which sent heat through the floors into his prison. And then there was the torture. They liked to think they made his stay endless, void and free of hope, like a kind of death punctuated by pain. But they were not as clever as they thought. At night Didi and Joe visited with an increased frequency, like a feverish time of wanting, needing and delivering torture. It was a type of craving that they needed to satiate. Dan could feel the hunger and desire on them. They were very sick little bunnies. Dan had worked out that they needed to let off steam for about four hours each night. He knew it was night only by the heat and by the night-drunk excitement in their eyes, during the times they got their kicks before the slow time of midnight. And they only visited less because they had already had their fill for the evening. Now with his mutilated hand throbbing and burning simultaneously; the pain driving him half-insane with its constant unrelenting presence, he knew the worst of the night’s torture was over. They had spent hours mocking him about the finger payment. Like a low budget porno with its sordid theme recurring until the cheap climax, Didi and Joe kept up the chatter about the payment and the dinner right until the end. The bastards. Dan had been in danger many times, but never had he been mutilated – he had been scratched and scarred, but never this. From now on, once he got out of here, Dan would be a man without a finger, as all people with missing limbs, fingers, eyes, are casually defined by those with everything. He hated it. What would Eva think? Could she love a man with nine fingers? Of course she could. He had always loved her, and in her own way she had always loved him, right? Regardless of all his stupidity and misdeeds. This was just another misdeed, and it wasn’t even his own. The heat kept him warm and the knowledge of his captor’s habits encouraged him. Where was the dinner they promised him? He wondered. Or were they like the suitor who promised the flowers before the bedding? The flowers never arrived afterwards. They owed him a dinner. They told him he had paid for it, and he had, a million times over. When his dinner finally arrived, his appetite went straight out the window. As did every other thought in his head. The encouragement he’d found in their habits and the warmth disappeared too. In Dan’s life it was getting late, very late indeed. They had been killing him slowly, when he was in prison and when he got out, killing him with poverty, killing him stone dead with false hope, mockery and lies, then torture, fire and pain. He had lived through it all, and survived up to this point. But as soon as the door opened, Dan knew his time was almost up. Victor Marka had arrived.
They let him enter first. Marka marched in, with his jacket hem flapping around his waist and his hands stretched out in front in an open hug gesture like guests did on This Is Your Life. His waxy face was uncharacteristically warm, mockingly warm; then, in an instant, the whole of Marka’s body, face and manner switched from friend to gangster, murderer, all authority, dark charisma, and pumped up stature. His face flicked from encouragement and compassion to contempt and mockery. “Good evening, Mr Bradley. It’s time for supper. You’ve paid up front, I believe.”
“You made sure I’ve been paying ever since the Tregenev case.”
The security men and the Germans moved in, ready to strike on their master’s behalf, but as they went to pass Marka, he issued a brutal chopping motion with his hand and the men came to a halt like dogs straining on a leash.
“You are paying the price for having an ego out of kilter with reality. You believed you could take me on, simply because you wanted to do it. Do you realise how insane that idea was now? How costly it was going to be to you? You had delusions of grandeur, that’s all. But really, Mr Bradley, you are a snivelling little shit, the kind I usually ignore and have someone else swat away. But your persistence annoyed me. You became a wart in the mirror. I even hate you, Mr Bradley. Do you understand what that means? Emotions are a waste of energy, I’ve always thought so. They fuck things up, Mr Bradley. I’ve seen it so many times - so many rivals lose control of their business or their wife or get embroiled in some kind of scandal because of their emotions. But you would know about this. In your line of work. Affairs of the heart, mischief – it’s the bread and butter of a private detective, is it not?”
Dan listened, not because he wanted to, but because he needed time. Time before they were going to do what they planned to do with him, to look for an escape, to create a plan. The situation was impossible, inescapable – part of him knew it, but most of Dan was not agreeing with what he knew. I’m going to survive this thing. Let the bastard grandstand. Dan nodded at Marka slowly, the scars, lesions, and cuts on his face undulating in the dim light from the hallway.
“You’ve made a study of me, haven’t you, Mr Bradley? I should be flattered. You will know that I am ruthless, and I know all about my enemies before I make my move against them. You know that I never act out of emotion. I consider my actions in advance and I plan the consequences. We Russians are strategic, cool. But there are some things unpredictable still, as we have seen today.”
What did he mean? Marka saw the flash of hope on his face.
“Do not fool yourself into any optimism, Mr Bradley. There was a small mess and it has been swept up. All your avenues for escape have been identified and eliminated. Or soon will be. I will kill you soon. It will not be pleasant for you, nor simple or easy. I know you believe this is happening to you because I have some kind of mental illness. I have heard it said before and I find it faintly amusing, but it is not true, not in the least. I do not believe in God, but I am biblical in my attitude of issuing punishment as the measure of the crime against me. Hence the reason why your punishment has been so protracted. You are the one with the illness, Bradley. In your delusion, you elevated yourself worthy enough to bring down a king.” Marka threw his head forward, opened his mouth wide and shouted so loud it filled the whole room. “You are nothing. Nothing. Less than faeces. How dare you even think of me! How dare you think about my business and imagine you are able to match or beat me in any way whatsoever? I find it repugnant. I find you offensive. You are several classes below me, even my men are higher than you. We are the kind who rule. The new Russia rules, while you and your kind survive on the crumbs from our table. You are not even worthy to sweep and serve. Now it is my right to do this to you. You have been trying to right a system that is in perfect balance already. That’s unacceptable! I have never wasted emotion on anyone, but I am burning up because of you. You had a chance. Maybe I could have forgotten you. I wouldn’t have of course, but you could have allowed yourself the illusion for a time. But even when I had you brought down lower than the street tramps, showing you the nothing you really are, you still imagined you could beat me. You make me sick. It is over for you. I have never made a man die like this before. Do you understand me?”
Dan Bradley nodded slowly, while imagining throwing his hardest punches left and right straight through the arrogant bastard’s face until all that was left was a slobbering pulp.
“Speak.”
Marka nodded. Joe Goebbels step forward and struck him hard across his cheek, which opened up a gash that started pouring out blood. Dan didn’t make a noise. He looked up at Joe and gave him a wink. Marka, was still droning on with his incessant, mindless talk.
“I’ve been killing you for two years, Bradley. I’ve been wrecking your life. Taking your hope. Ruining your career, your relationships. I even had them steal your subsistence living by stopping your state benefits.”
“In your dreams, Vic. I made all of that mess just fine by myself. I wrecked it because I didn’t bother listening to people who knew better. I never have. Then I got obsessed about bringing you down, because I don’t like people with small man syndrome. You know, coming on like Darth Vader when deep down they’re more like Peewee Herman.”
Old Joe wanted some more and strained to hit Dan again, but Marka gestured him to wait.
“You want a quick death, do you? You are so deluded.” Marka shook his head.
“The delusions are all yours, Comrad. That’s enough now. You’re not going to ruin the day of my death with all your self-important, messianic bullshit, so now it’s my turn to talk. I never ever back down. I never ever give up. If I knew you were this much of a crackpot, I still wouldn’t have hesitated to come at you like night follows day, and I had no choice in the matter anyway because if I catch a scent of someone like you getting off on being an arsehole and they leave me half a clue, I’ll chase them, fight them, and hurt them regardless of the consequences. And do you know what? I think I can still win - even from here, even now – just about.” Marka shook his head in exaggerated pity.
“You’re half-dead. That redhead slut of yours won’t even be able to recognise you.”
He shook the anger and upset away; he wasn’t going to let the Russian mess with his mind.
“I messed up my own life; it’s got nothing to do with you, Peewee. So don’t kid yourself. You didn’t do a thing. Prison? I got through it well enough. It was like a long holiday somewhere boring. Like Butlins. And I got kicked out of my bed-sit by standing up to another little jerk. See – my fault, not yours. And as for the Mitkin brothers and the Somalis trying to hurt me – do you really think that was your doing? I started it. I took them on. And I didn’t even lose. Hang on. Did I forget anything? Oh, yeah... My benefit money being stopped. Actually, that was my fault too. It’s not very hard to lose your money these days if you refuse to apply for a job as a trolley boy at Kwiksave. I told the woman, Kwiksave’s not my scene. See what I mean, Vic? I can’t see that anything that’s happened to me in the last two years has anything to do with you. It had nothing to do with you whatsoever. Sorry, old bean. Walter Mitty strikes again.”
It wasn’t true. But it was a version of the truth which hit home. Marka held out a hand to the Ruskie looking security guard on his left. The man with the monobrow dipped a hand in his pocket and retrieved a small gleaming metal bar. For a moment, Dan imagined Marka was going to whistle him a tune on a harmonica, but then he threaded his right hand through gleaming metal and Dan understood. After a long wind up, the knuckle duster connected with his already bloody cheek, followed up by a right cross straight through his face. He felt his face rupture again as a curtain of warm blood oozed down his skin. The hard man drew back and took a breath.
“Don’t insult me. You know I destroyed you. I did it. And tonight, I’ll be watching it all end. You deserve every bit of what has come to you. Every little part of it.”
“Vic,” said Dan. “What they all say about you… it’s all true. You’re absolutely fucking nuts.”
“Enjoy your dinner, Mr Bradley. If you can still chew it. So long.”
Marka walked away as the guard in the suit proffered a heaped plate and a fork to him. Dan’s hands were still tied. His face was bleeding. Dan shrugged at him. “What can I do with that?” The security type said nothing and laid the gently steaming plate of sausages, mash and onion gravy in front of him. They all left in a little military style convoy, Marka and the main security man and the Germans, with the junior man about to close the door behind him, when Dan called out. “Hey. This is my last supper. Let me have one hand free so I can eat some. I paid for this with my finger.” The man lingered in the doorway, contemplating. After thinking for a moment, he spoke in a thick Russian accent.
“You can move your body, yes?”
Dan shrugged. “An inch here, an inch there.”
“Then bend your back and roll over. You can eat your dinner like a dog.”
The man slammed the door, his footsteps thudded away. Now there was despair and bitterness. Then he remembered something and he smiled - the bastards made a mistake. Marka told him about a mess that had been cleared up. If they were under some kind of pressure, any pressure at all, it was beginning to show. And if they were beginning to make mistakes, he would exploit it. The only thing was he didn’t know how much time he had left, and that was a huge problem. At the very least he had as long as they reckoned it would take him to eat his dinner before they would strike. Another part of the punishment programme. He leaned over and pressed his face forward into the mush of his dinner, disregarding the notion it had been poisoned, desperate for the energy it offered. Dignity was a ship that had sailed a long, long time ago. As he ate, he heard something new.
A noise scraped against the door. He was twisted over, uncomfortable. He barely heard the noise with one of his ears pressed to the floor - his head was full of the sound of chewing and swallowing. But he stopped mid-chew and listened. The heavy metal door shunted quietly against its frame. He scanned the silence, and peered in the direction of the door, which he could not see. The silence was overwhelming now. It was deliberate and powerful, pregnant with tension. He swallowed and a grin slowly formed over his sliced, bloody, swollen face. He left the food alone, and tilted his hips back until his centre of gravity pulled him upright.
“I know you’re there,” he said, choosing his words carefully, opting for only the neutral, just in case he was wrong. But his heart was racing dangerously fast; he could feel it. “My senses are just fine. I know you’re out there. Standing right behind that door.”
The door rocked on its hinges again. A clear, deliberate shunt.
“And you can’t get in because you haven’t got a key. Whoever you are, I think I like you.”
The response came as a whisper through the door. “Dan. Dan, is that you?”
Dan’s body shot upright and his head rocked back against the wall. He didn’t feel the pain. He knew that voice, even as a whisper, especially as a whisper. He could never forget it. “Of course it’s me. Lord Lucan checked out this morning.” Dan laughed, a real laugh like the kind he used to make before all of this. A stupid guffawing laugh which hurt his face, and suddenly tears came with it and blurred his eyes and stung his cheeks, but he didn’t care. The door was still locked, but Eva had come - she knew - she believed him now.
“Dan! They hurt you! Are you ok? Tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.” He whispered now.
“You’re a terrible liar, Dan. How bad are you?”
“Superficial, really, just a few scratches.”
“They cut your finger off, Dan.”
Anger surged through him. They must have sent her a picture, the bastards. They had hurt her feelings, made her worry. They had all but dragged her into this. And now suddenly, he began to worry again. His joy began to tilt into a new unpleasant alertness. The Russian was insane, definitely totally insane. Dan realised right away Marka wanted Eva to be here, to be a part of his death. Dan hoped he was wrong. He couldn’t share his worst fear; there was no way in the world he could tell her he believed that Marka might have lured Eva here to witness his death, to become his ultimate torture. Or far worse still, that
he would see her die before him. He shook the thoughts away, but they wouldn’t go. No, not even Marka could be that sick, right?
Crossing the Line Page 7
