by Kane, Paul
Another sufferer – I can’t tell their sex – is creeping along the floor. At first I think they are looking for something, but then I see they have no legs. Something has torn this being clean in half and organs are slipping out onto the stone as they move.
Yet irrespective of their injuries, they are all coming towards me, pointing. Are they warning me of something behind?
I roll over on my front in the night and the soreness of the cuts snap me sharply awake. Someone is looking at me from inside the cell. I can’t see them, but I’m sure of it.
No, it can’t be… Just a leftover image from the dream.
I listen for the crying. There it is, much louder now. In spite of this, I still can’t work out the source. Is it coming from next door, or a world away?
It isn’t long before the men come for me again. I put up very little resistance, even less than last time. As they drag me through the doorway, I turn back to see if anyone is in the cell. Unfortunately, my throat hurts too much and I’m yanked past so quickly that I only catch a glimpse of something intangible.
Back in The Torturer’s lair, I am relieved of the last remnants of my clothing: tattered shirt, trousers, socks and underwear. I’m then chained to the wall by clasps I didn’t notice there before. My arms are out horizontally straight at my sides and my legs are spread wide. The chains are short; they don’t allow me to sag forwards. This uncomfortable position pulls the flesh tight over my chest, intensifying the tenderness of those lacerations.
The men leave me alone with the lights off. I can hear things moving in the room. They make too much noise to be rats. Something touches my leg. A brief sensation, but enough to make me jump. Then it’s travelling up my thigh, something with short legs: a spider?
No, it’s a hand. I can tell that now.
More fingers join it. They pick at my cuts, squeeze my skin, pinching and kneading. A multitude of eager, grabbing hands all over me, covering my legs, my arms, my face. I want to shout out, tell them to stop. But I know that they won’t. The smothering hordes progress; more stroking of digits. What do they want from me?
The light comes on suddenly. I am alone in the room. No hands, no fingers. It was all just a trick. But how could they disappear so quickly? I cast such thoughts from my mind as The Torturer enters.
‘Good morning, Mr Brooks.’ I can see no emotion in his face today. But the fact that he got nothing from me yesterday has done little to dampen his resolve. ‘I trust you slept well. I’m sorry we had to get you up so early, but we’ve got a lot to do and so little time in which to accomplish it.’
Little time? Does that mean somebody is looking for me? Or is he referring to the short amount of time he has left before I ‘expire’?
He walks over to me, hands in his pockets.
‘Perhaps you might see reason today. If not, well…’ He deliberately tails off, allowing my imagination to do its worst.
‘Yesterday was a mere taster of the pleasures to come. But it would be better for all concerned if you just co-operated.’
‘Please… Please, I’ve done nothing to you.’
‘Nothing to me personally, no. But it’s not as simple as that, Mr Brooks. When I’m called in, people expect results. Nothing more, nothing less. And I always get them. You will tell me what I want to know. In the end they always do.’
‘How can I tell you anything when I don’t even remember?’
He ignores me completely and strolls over to the other side of the room. The Torturer stands there for a minute, nodding to himself, then comes back across. As he makes his way to me, he takes a small plastic bag out of his pocket. I can’t see what’s inside, but it jangles like the ring of keys that open my cell door.
‘I ask you once more: who do you work for and what do you do?’
I can only drop my head and sigh. There is more rattling. I look up in time to see him go to my left hand. He takes a number of small objects out of the bag and clasps them tightly. The Torturer drops the bag and produces a hammer from his other pocket.
When he grips my middle finger and pushes one of the small objects under the fingernail, I realise they are long, thin arrows of metal – possibly thick pins or nails. In any event, the point is sharp and scrapes the nerves of my fingertip.
But it isn’t until he strikes the nail with his hammer that I really feel it. Holding my finger up, he bangs it right in there, embedding it well below the surface until it almost splits the fingernail.
I find it impossible to look away, even as he does the same thing again and again, planting more shafts of exploding torment beneath my tissue. As a stone causes ripples in a lake, so the pain that starts off in my fingers cascades throughout my entire body. It’s like something is trying to burrow its way into my hand and up my arm: a small creature with sharp teeth, feeding on my anguish.
‘How’s your memory now, Mr Brooks? Anything coming back to you?’ I can hardly comprehend his words. All my concentration is devoted to blocking out my own suffering; it isn’t easy. In fact it’s impossible. Every twitch of my hand, every spasm, aggravates the pain.
He waits for an answer I cannot give, leaning in to hear my gasps in case I should whisper some important piece of information.
The Torturer bangs his fist on the wall next to my head. ‘You disappoint me.’
Over his shoulder I can see people in the far corner of the room. It’s only a momentary flash, but I see them: the figures from my dream. Then they are gone.
‘I-I don’t—’
‘Who do you work for? Who? Who? WHO?’
‘Don’t r-remember.’
‘What are you? What do you do? What? What? WHAT?’
He is shouting the last part of each question. As he barks the words out at me, spittle flies from his mouth and lands on my cheek. I can smell his rank breath, like curdled milk left out in the sun. He will get nothing from me.
‘Very well.’ I watch him go out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
The space around me becomes unreal, melting into a puddle on the floor, and I am lost to the world for some time. Yet I do not dream.
The next thing I know, a coldness strikes me in the face. The icy water, thrown by Him, draws me back to reality. The Torturer is holding a bucket. There are a few more lined up next to the table legs. On the table just behind him is a black bundle of cloth and a glass of brown liquid.
The pins in my fingers have awakened as well, jabbing me with fresh darts of distress. However, the nerves seem to be going numb and it hurts much less than it did before.
‘Do try to remain conscious. It makes my job so much harder when you keep dozing off like that.’ The calmness has returned to his voice. I can’t work the man out. He swings from polite to vicious without warning. Initially, he struck me as a sadistic individual, but now something tells me it’s just a means to an end for him, all this…torture.
He turns his back on me and unrolls the cloth across his table. More jangling noises, but heavier. I surmise these are the tools of his trade.
When he turns round again, he proves me right, though I wish to God I hadn’t been. He’s thumbing a large blade six or seven inches long. It’s pristine and glints in the light from the bulb above.
‘Do you know how long a person can remain alive during a torture session, Mr Brooks?’ I remain silent. ‘Neither do I, but I suspect we might find out together.’
He approaches with the blade raised.
* * *
The next few hours are a blur of blood and barbarity. First The Torturer slices pieces off my legs and arms – thin slices like he’s carving a Sunday roast. He uses a variety of brutal tools, including one that reminds me of an apple peeler. Long strips of skin are pulled back, allowing the wine-coloured liquid to flow. Muscles and tendons are exposed to the air as he continues to ask me the questions, ‘Who are you? What were you doing before you came here?’ over and over, ad infinitum, until the repetition itself becomes a kind of torture for me.
The cuts and defacement of my body don’t bother me that much (strange, I know). I believe I’m past my pain threshold already. But I soon discover that is not so.
The Torturer picks up the glass of brown liquid, and I assume he is taking a break for a drink. I’m mystified when he pours a small amount into his cupped hand. But all becomes frighteningly clear as he rubs the vinegar into my open wounds.
Like a man possessed, I buck against my constraints. My screams are loud and piercing in my own ears. All the things I have endured up to this point are overshadowed by his new game.
Again I feel a gloom descending upon me. I can’t take much more and my eyelids beg to be closed. Another bucket of freezing water is hurled in my face. He won’t let me escape that way, into oblivion. But to some extent I am grateful, for the water does at least wash a little of the condiment out of my sores.
‘Tell me what I want to know, Mr Brooks.’
I mumble something incomprehensible. He takes it as ‘I don’t remember’, the same answer I have given all along.
‘So you have said repeatedly, and I don’t doubt that you believe it…up to a point. But both you and I know that the truth is up there.’ He points to my head. ‘You’ve convinced – brainwashed – yourself into believing what you’re saying. “I don’t remember.” You don’t want to remember, Mr Brooks. Can’t you see that?’
I manage a mouthful of words, but only in hushed tones. ‘If you know…then tell me.’
‘I can’t do that. You have to figure it out for yourself. Christ, people like you make me sick. You’re scum.’
‘But—’
‘And still you resist. Why do you think that is? Why do you think I am doing this? It’s not for the good of your health!’ He allows himself a wry grin.
‘D-Don’t know,’ I utter. The figures at the back of the room have returned. Watching them, I feel an uncontrollable fear. Those poor, poor people. Oh God, look at them. Wretches with broken limbs and bloody faces: one small girl clutches at a teddy bear soaked in her own gore; an old woman staggers forwards, her chin a pulped mess; a young man with blonde hair is missing part of his left shoulder, the meat torn away somehow.
‘You do know, admit it. Think very carefully, now. Who do you work for?’
I gaze past The Torturer and he looks back at the spot where the people are gathering.
‘They know. Don’t they, Mr Brooks?’
Why am I nodding? Because he’s right. They know, I’m positive of it. But how can The Torturer see the crushed souls from my dream? Who now number at least thirty; the room appears to be swelling to accommodate them all.
‘I ask again, who do you work for?’
A name pops into my head: Hobson’s. I don’t know what it means, so I keep my mouth shut.
‘Look at them, Brooks,’ he says, dropping the niceties of ‘Mr’. Even after all he’s put me through, I find this one small detail significant. ‘Would it surprise you to learn that their blood is on your hands?’
‘No! That’s not true!’
‘You, Brooks, are a murderer.’
What is he talking about? I’m no killer. I haven’t got the stomach for it. I just couldn’t. The crowd comes up to join The Torturer at his desk. All are pointing like they were in my dream. They blame me, I can see it in their dead eyes.
‘And aren’t they right to blame you?’ The Torturer asks, reading my thoughts.
‘No, I…don’t think—’
‘You don’t think, you don’t remember. I know that you do.’
‘How…’ I find strength from inside, desperation driving me to ask, ‘How do you know all this about me, when I don’t?’
He smiles again. ‘You know the answer to that, too.’
Riddles, all riddles. The Torturer revolves now and busies himself with his implements for a final time. He chooses one to use: a stainless steel scoop.
Flanked by the ravaged collection of corpses, he sweeps forwards. They urge him on, pointing and pushing. I am more fearful of them than of him. It terrifies me and I don’t know why.
‘M-Make them go away!’ I look from The Torturer to the faces around him, around me.
‘You are to blame for their deaths, Brooks. Yes? YES?’
I scream at him: ‘No! It wasn’t my fault. I swerved to avoid the car… It was on the wrong side…’ My breath is quick and shallow. ‘I had to…turn the wheel to avoid it, then I couldn’t… I lost control.’
‘Did you, or did you not, kill them?’
‘Yes, you bastard. Yes!’
The people nod quietly to themselves, content with my admission. I remember now who I am, who I work for, and why I tried to forget.
‘Please make them go away,’ I beg The Torturer.
‘There are none so blind as those who will not see. First, tell me what I need to know. I need to hear you say it. Then I’ll make the faces disappear.
I tell him.
And as he moves closer, bringing the instrument up to my eyes, I see his face change. It is as if someone is holding up a mirror to me. His visage has become a reflection of my own.
I hear the crying again. It is very loud, very near. I am not at all surprised to discover that I am the one shedding the tears. Before I have time to ponder this, though, I am plunged into darkness. Permanent darkness.
* * *
I am woken by sounds at my cell door. A banging noise. Someone is breaking in. Someone has found me, albeit too late. They are calling my name.
And they are inside. I cannot see them, cannot see anything anymore, but I hear what they are saying:
‘Somebody turn on the light, I can’t bloody well see a thing.’
‘Watch your step, there’s water everywhere.’
‘Good Christ! Sir, I think we’ve found him, here in the garage. He’s behind this partition.’
‘Oh my… Look at him. I think I’m going to—’
‘Has he done this? Fuck! I think he’s done this to himself. Smith, don’t just stand there, fetch the paramedics. Right now!’
‘What’s all this stuff? Clothes-line, nails, hammer…and he must have half the cutlery drawer in here with him. Shit! His eyes, he’s taken his eyes out!’
‘Dr Campbell, your patient’s in here.’
‘What’s that smell? Can you smell that? I think it’s vinegar.’
‘Oh Lord in Heaven, no. I had a feeling something like this would happen. I tried to warn them at the hospital. Told them he wasn’t ready to go home yet. And when he missed his appointment today…’
‘Why’s he done this, Sergeant?’
‘It’s that guy who was in the motorway pile-up last August. You remember, the driver for Hobson’s Coaches. It was in all the papers. Right, Doc?’
‘He blames himself for the accident. A lot of people died. Holidaymakers: men, women, children.’
‘That still doesn’t explain—’
‘It’s textbook. He’s tortured himself mentally for months, but it seems that wasn’t enough. Thank God his neighbours heard the screams. Otherwise…’
‘Smith! Where are those bloody paramedics?’
The voices drone on – does someone mention the words ‘fantasy’ and ‘withdrawn’? – but I take no notice. I can see something now. How can that be? I know The Torturer stole my eyes. Nevertheless, I see the host of dead people pointing in my mind. My accusers.
He lied. They haven’t gone away at all! They never will.
But what about The Torturer himself? He has gone, at least for now. The voices in my cell have chased him off.
Yet I can’t help wondering, deep down inside, if he will return one day.
Remote
The office building looks much the same as any other: an amalgam of glass and metal and concrete existing in the same space.
But it hides dark, dark secrets.
Every weekday for the last ten years he has trod its drab corridors, used its lifts and sat in its offices to do his job. Ten years…ever since they found out about him. He is
walking to his office right now, following the directions, though he’d know the way blindfolded. First thing Monday morning and his observers will be waiting for him, ready to give him his brief, to run down the company’s mission statement. The man takes in very little of his surroundings, as little as possible in fact. They’re meant to be drab after all: no pictures on the walls or fancy patterns here. No distractions.
At last he comes to his own office. The title on its varnished wooden door reads: G786. It is not the room number; this is his name. Not the name he was christened with, you understand, but the one they gave to him. The one he is known by at work. The one he has begun to think of as his true moniker. He has no idea what the letter or the numbers mean. It’s quite possible that his superiors have no idea either, but it is his. It belongs to him.
Grasping the smooth metal knob, he opens the door. Inside is a fair-sized rectangular table, around which his observers are seated. There are three of them, and never the same ones twice: a stocky man with bad teeth and a crown of grey-white hair; a very tall light-ginger man with circular glasses who has the annoying habit of jamming his tongue firmly into his cheek; and a middle-aged woman with a kindly face. As is evidenced by the building itself, though, looks can be very deceptive.
The closest to him, tall ginger, rises first. He doesn’t say anything, he just points to a manila file at the head of the table. G786 nods and sits down in front of the file, opening it up to glance inside.
The first thing he sees is a colour photograph of a man dressed in military garb, peak cap and sunglasses. There’s a name at the bottom, and a short bio. G786 doesn’t take any of this in; there’s really no need. He doesn’t much care anymore. One guerrilla leader is much the same as another, and he doesn’t need to know the ins and outs, the justifications – if indeed there are any. All he needs to know is the country, a vague idea of the whereabouts. He flips through the other papers and finds a map of the area, fairly detailed. Though not as detailed as the satellite pictures that come next, pinpointing buildings, guards, watch-towers…
