by Gerard Gray
His hands were covered in scratches. I looked down at my own hands: not a scratch to be seen.
“Our friend here has a sense of humour,” he continued, smiling inanely through his thick glasses. “It chooses people who would never in a million years perform an act of violence. Where’s the fun in getting someone who’s already lost their soul to commit an atrocity. It always chooses someone who has a lot to lose as well. I doff my hat to it; it never does things by halves. It always chooses someone whose fall from grace would sadden society – would make it that little bit worse.”
My mind returned to the scratches. If I remembered correctly Tiddles had scratched the hell out of my hands in the dream. But I didn’t have any scratches? Why? Had I worn gloves?
I ran my eyes over Steven’s hands: nasty, nasty scratches.
Steven continued with his rant. “Take my brother for instance. Now there’s an act that will damage society no end. Think what the press will do to the Catholic Church in England after this. I wouldn’t be surprised if it weren’t the beginning of the end for it, at least as we know it. Who do you think is going to want to be a Catholic priest in this day and age when it’s branded with the stigma of being a child molester… a child killer? If they thought they had problems recruiting priests before, let’s see how they get on now. I give the Catholic Church in its present state twenty years tops. The press are going to crucify them. It’s everything the populace fear about society all rolled into one: the violation of innocents, the abuse of power. The media are going to have a field day. Nothing lasts forever, Peter. Not even the mighty Rome.”
Silence.
Oh, no. Please God, not now.
I dropped the scratches from my head and sat up straight in my chair. I was suddenly facing a far more immediate crisis than the collapse of the Catholic Church in the UK. I felt embarrassed and at the same time scared. I had seen how Steven had reacted earlier to my dilemma, and I was worried about how he would take my next entreaty. I had to ask him, though. For the sake of all concerned I really had to.
“Steven, I’m sorry, but I need to go to the toilet.”
“Later.”
“I really need to go. You see, ever since the stabbing I’ve had a problem holding…”
“I said later.” Steven looked angry. What the hell was wrong with the man?
“I can’t hold it in any longer.”
“Do I need to go over this again? There will be no shit on my watch. I don’t do shit, it’s as simple as that. Deal with it. There will be plenty of time for shit later. Got that?” Steven pointed his gun towards my chest. He really didn’t do shit.
This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. It just made my anxiety all the worse.
I shot my head to the side. There had been yet another noise from the room beyond. I quickly turned back around to Steven to ask him once again for clemency with my inner plight, but I didn’t get the chance to say anything. Steven was stabbing the door with tiny glances, back and forth, back and forth – quick little stabs of anticipation.
I turned my head to face the room, shifting uncomfortably in my seat, my bowels pressing hard to the point of pain. God, I needed to go to the toilet, but he wasn’t going to let me. “What’s behind the door?” I asked, a fear violently stabbing me in the guts. Steven looked back at me excited. I remembered the last time this man had been this ebullient: it was to show me a head in a fridge. I didn’t want to see anything like that ever again. I could feel my stomach going into cramp, the stool pushing hard.
“What’s behind that door?” he replied, his manic eyes sparkling behind his wired rimmed spectacles. “Demons, Peter. That’s what’s behind that door. Demons.”
*
As Steven turned the key in the lock I remember thinking that he reminded me of my mum’s dog Lucy. A memory of the dog started to run circles around my head. My mum used to take Lucy for a walk a couple of times a day. They had got into the habit of walking by a row of high bushes situated immediately behind a couple of obscured back gardens. At this point in the walk my mum would let Lucy run free, and for the most part the dog would stay at heel. But whenever they passed this particular spot, Lucy would get excited. The dog would start to froth at the mouth and run towards the bushes, and then dart back in the direction of my mum again. She would do this repeatedly, darting back and forth between my mum and the briar.
One day, as per usual, my mum and Lucy were out for a walk. When they got to the hedge Lucy started to behave as she always did. But this time, instead of incising her run and cutting back towards my mum, she simply disappeared into the thicket. My mum stopped and waited for her, only slightly perturbed.
Within seconds all hell had broken loose.
A cacophony of mayhem exploded from beyond the bushes. Murderous yelps and clucks clamoured and crashed into a frightening crescendo of insanity. Before my mum knew what was happening she was running towards the hedge just like Lucy. But unlike Lucy she wasn’t excited; she was scared out of her wits.
My mum managed to edge her way frantically through overgrown brambles to the point where she was standing at a high fence. She nervously peered over the slats to see what all the pandemonium was about. And what she saw almost stopped her beating heart. Lucy was running backwards and forwards around the garden with something in her mouth. Feathers and blood were everywhere. My mum gasped as she took in the hellish scene before her. It was like something out of a horror movie.
Lucy suddenly appeared by her side staring up at her in triumph. My mother blanched on realising what was in her mouth. It was a chicken. She quickly returned her attention to the carnage in the garden, but something was different from the previous picture. This time an old man was standing at the back door of the house. He looked like he was in utter shock, his face as white as the colour of his hair.
“I’m so, so very sorry,” my mum shouted over to him. “I’ll pay for any damage my dog has caused. I’m so very sorry.”
The old man slowly shifted his gaze over towards my mum and simply said: “They were my pets… They were my friends…”
The reason Lucy had gotten so excited every day on passing by that bush was that the garden behind it contained five chickens. It didn’t any more. It contained none. She had massacred all five in the time it had taken my mum to get to the fence.
As I watched Steven open that door I think I had the same nervous tension in my chest that my mum had on approaching that fence. Lucy was a lovely dog, but she was capable of murder, and my mum knew that. The only consolation she could find from the whole episode was that it hadn’t been a child. I had the horrible feeling that I wasn’t going to be quite so lucky.
The door opened into a struggling, breathing darkness. I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear tiny muffled movements and sounds. I quickly darted my head around to see if I could see anything at all, but it was too dark.
“Happy Halloween!”
And with that… the lights went on.
I balked in confusion. Steven was standing right behind me so I couldn’t back off. In my confused panic, it must have taken me a good few seconds to take everything in. With a little nudge to the back I staggered forward into the heart of madness. I felt like I was in a medical tent in the middle of a war torn battlefield. The atmosphere was frenetic. It was electric. I had to catch my breath. Again I thought of Lucy running around the garden with a ripped up chicken in her mouth. My heartbeat was quickening with every passing second. I didn’t entirely understand what I was looking at, but I knew it was terrible.
The room contained a chair, a bed and a chest of drawers. A large, black window reflected the insanity of the scene back onto us. The first thing I noticed was the naked figure tied to a chair with what looked like masking tape – lots of masking tape – wrapped around him. The chair in itself appeared to be tied to a radiator, holding it secure. I stared at the figure hard. It looked like a boy, perhaps about the age of fifteen, maybe more. He was gagged and battered, his fa
ce black and blue, smeared with blood. I stared at him in horror as he bucked back and forth like a fish on a hook, struggling for dear life.
But there was something else, something I didn’t quite realise the moment I had entered the room. Chaos turned into confusion. I turned my head to face the bed. What was this? Was there a bump? I flinched as the white bump turned into a giant, writhing maggot. I stared at it in shocked horror, the scene utterly hellish. It looked like a body writhing under an opaque, tightly bound, white sheet.
I swung my attention back to the boy and then back to the covered body. My head clouded over for a second as I staggered into an opaque fog; I felt like I was about to pass out. Steven must have realised this – he steadied my arm. “Am I good to you, or am I good to you, my lad?” All traces of humour were now gone from his voice.
For a split second I think I lost my mind. Unfortunately it only took me a couple of seconds to find it again. I turned to face the boy directly in front of me. I stared hard into his eyes. And as I did so my world fell away. It was him. It was the monster from my nightmares. It was the boy who had stabbed me.
Chapter 19
Room 101
I ran my eyes over the room in horror until they came to rest on a table. It was sitting beside the bound boy with a number of gadgets laid out in a line. None of them were frightening in themselves, and nothing to compare with the blockbuster Hollywood slasher movies, but the intention looked much the same. The meagre offering consisted of a kitchen knife, a saw, a pair of scissors and a hammer.
A deep sadness passed over me on looking at them. How could someone do this? I had to try hard to stop myself from crying. I had no doubt from the earlier Rambo incident what was about to happen here, but for the life of me I didn’t know why? Why was he doing this? How could any human being do this to another? It didn’t make any sense. None of this made any sense.
“Please let him go,” I pleaded, the indignant tears gathering on the horizon. “Please… this isn’t right. Please let him go.” I turned to leave but Steven halted me in my tracks. He grabbed my jaw with his hand, turning my face violently towards the boy. “Do you know who that is? Don’t you recognise him?”
I reluctantly looked into the screaming, bound eyes of the boy.
“I know who he is.”
Steven tried to push a knife into my hand but I wouldn’t accept it. He stopped trying for a second, slightly exasperated. “Here’s your chance,” he said, pointing the knife towards the boy. “Haven’t you dreamt of this moment? To have him alone in a room, tied to a chair, begging you for forgiveness as you sawed the fingers from his hands. Haven’t you wanted to punch the living daylights out of that smug, ignorant little shit’s face? Look at him. He’s the epitome of a thug. He’s all that you hate about your society. Don’t tell me you feel sorry for him. Do you think he would feel sorry for you if your roles were reversed? He would kill you as quick as look at you. Remember what he did? What he tried to do. He tried to kill you. And he did it without a second thought. He’s a fucking monster, a monster who would like nothing better than to make your children fatherless. Don’t you dare feel sorry for him.”
I didn’t even try to break free from Steven’s grip. I knew who he was alright, but I didn’t care anymore. I had forgiven him; I just didn’t know it until now. For the first time since my captivity I felt a warmth drift over me as though my dad had returned to my side. And I knew he was pleased. Staring at this poor bereft creature the only emotion I felt now was sorrow. I felt no hatred towards this boy anymore.
But in saying that, Steven was right. I had dreamt of this moment: walking down the street, sitting at my desk, lying in the bath. I had beaten this little shit to a pulp. I had stabbed him until the blood squirted from his mouth, and I had shot both his neddy kneecaps to smithereens. But they were just fantasies, and now, faced with the reality of my nightmares, none of that mattered anymore. I was better than that. It wasn’t that I was better than this boy, a boy who had tried to kill me; it was just that I knew better. I’d had a fantastic family upbringing, no matter the problems along the way. This upbringing had allowed me to go onto university where I again furthered my knowledge of the world. This boy was still a kid with time to learn. God only knew the upbringing he had had. He still had time to learn.
I started to pray, tears of sorrow lining my face: “Our father, who art in heaven…”
“Ahhhhh,” Steven pushed my face towards the wall. “Fucking useless.” He grabbed my wrist, attached something to it and flicked it onto a railing. I looked down at my hand. He had handcuffed me to a metal pole running directly adjacent to the radiator. To my horror Steven then marched over to the boy and pointed the knife right in his face.
“Well, if you’re not going to do it, then I suppose I’ll have to. Someone’s got to do it. What shall we start with, eh?” Steven looked angry and excited all at the same time. I stared at his mouth. He had a white speck of goo attached to his lower lip that kept stringing out when he spoke. It grossed me out. He also had what looked like a small dollop of cream in the corner of his eye, just behind his thick, wired specks.
“Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we,” Steven quickly pulled back the knife and rammed it into the boy’s stomach.
“Oh dear God, no. No, no, no… Oh no.” I rushed forward only to be halted by the cuffs. “What are you doing? For pity’s sake, no.”
“An eye for an eye, that’s what I’m doing, Peter.”
“Dear God,” I screamed, as Steven sank the knife into him for a second time. The poor boy was screaming his head off. I turned away; I couldn’t look. Even with the gag and masking tape, his screams were deafening. He was in the throws of agony.
I suddenly noticed the maggot to my right writhing violently under the sheet. Did it know what was happening? Did it know it was next?
My mind flashed to my mum. I could remember the pain she had gone through only the week before on attempting to get her out of bed.
There was so much pain.
The boy’s screams crashed back into my head. I raised my hand like a child and peeped through the slats of my fingers. I didn’t want to look, but I found myself drawn. I couldn’t look at the boy’s face, though. Steven grinned back at me.
“Stop. Please stop. You’re going to kill him.”
“Don’t worry, he’ll live… for now.”
“This is wrong,” I moaned, lowering my hand from my face. “This isn’t the way to deal with this. This is wrong. So fucking wrong. Please let him go. It’s not his fault.”
Steven examined me for a couple of seconds. He looked like he was thinking.
“I have a question. And I would like you to humour me with an answer. Do you think that the youth of today are far worse than they were when you were young?”
“What?”
“Do you believe that we live in a broken society, and that this thing before us is its face?” Steven gestured towards the boy.
“I… don’t know.”
Steven gave me an angry snarl. “What did I say to you earlier? Don’t treat me like a fucking fool. Now answer the question. Do you think this boy is a symptom of the broken society?”
“Yes,” I moaned.
“Bollocks.”
“What?”
“I said what a load of fucking bollocks. For every one of these media monsters I’ll find you a thousand good kids. You’re a brain washed little prol like all the rest of society – spoiled little bastards who don’t even know they’re born. I suppose you think we’re far worse off now than we were forty years ago, that the youth are out of control. If you have a look at all the statistics for the last forty years you’ll see that violent crime has actually come down, my lad.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. And quite frankly I didn’t know if cared right now. But in saying that, where had the man been for the last ten years? Everyone knew that something was going wrong with society. The politicians were even debating on what to do about it in
parliament. All you had to do was pick up a newspaper to read about another stabbing or shooting by some drunken kid. The evidence was everywhere.
I dropped the dead thoughts from my head. The madman was trying to screw with my mind and I was falling for it. I wasn’t going to rise to this.
Steven pointed his bloody knife towards me. “Brain washed. Brain washed like all the rest. You’ve never had it so good. The further back we go the worse it gets? Take the nineteenth century, for instance. There was a time when there actually was a paedophile on every street corner – probably the local bobby – and anyone and his dog could get away with murder. If you think the youth of today are so out of control, then where are your facts? Do you have any statistical facts to back up your claims?”
I thought about this, wiping the snot away from my nose, the tears abated. “I don’t need facts,” I spat. I was rising to it, but I couldn’t help myself. “I can use my eyes. Can’t you see it for your self?”
“No, I can’t actually.”
“What about me? What about the scar on my stomach?”
“Wrong place, wrong time – unfortunate.”
Fucking hell.
“Did you know that back in the day we used to hang wayward kids? We used to hang them for stealing a loaf of bread. But that was back in the good old days, long before society decided to break. There’s a chicken and an egg conundrum for you. Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you have to be working before you can be broken.
“No, Peter. As far as I’m concerned little fucks like this have always been running wild. Thirty years ago we called them skinheads. Now they were a nasty bunch. Back in the seventies I can remember one of these youths wrapping another kid up in barbed wire and hanging him from a tree. He then poured petrol over him and lit the match. The skinhead was fourteen. Evil people have always been around, Peter. What do you think’s so different between today and the seventies?”
