by Jim Jennings
The lamp above Laurence’s head seemed to burn with the heat of a thousand suns. This produced a sharp, stinging sensation in his left temple. He struggled to open his eyes and keep them open, for the light was thrust right up against his face and it felt as if it was burning a hole in his head. To exacerbate things, the blow he had received had left him dazed and confused and his senses were dulled. He looked down to see that his body was strapped by belts to the chair; one on either ankle, one on either wrist, and a long belt curved tightly about his abdomen, which groaned with hurt and hunger. The cruel light was suddenly swung backwards from out of his face and it revealed the rest of the room to him. Directly ahead, hanging from the ceiling, was the unkind light. On either side of him were bare walls the colour of sand while before him, sitting on a leather stool with her legs folded and a callous smile, was the striking woman. A moment later, she was literally striking Laurence across the face in a bid to wake him up and to inflict some pain. The blow allowed him to gather his senses together; the smell of perfume was thick in the air, so too the sense of imminent danger. He looked again at the woman. She was decked in a scarlet dress that ran to her knees. In her left hand she held a small metallic object.
‘Where am I?’ Laurence asked in determined fashion, though it hurt to speak. His lips were swelling up from where she had hit him.
‘You’re exactly where I promised you would be; the unveiling of Pandora’s Box.’ The smarmy statement came from behind Laurence and belonged to Randall Johnson. Laurence tried to turn his head but the chair would not allow him. He entered Laurence’s view with a confident walk and positioned himself next to the woman, placing his hand on her bony right shoulder. The devil would not have looked out of place next to this diabolical pairing. Wearing a long, loose and finely woven cloth, accompanied by sandals, he looked the very image of a priest. Randall shook his head at Laurence,
‘My dear Mr Swift, what has become of you? Listening in on other people’s conversations? Do you not remember what happened to the curious cat? You used to have such manners...’ He gave a little chuckle and clucked his tongue in disapproval.
‘Yeah, and you used to be dead!’ Laurence spat the words out, barely hiding his contempt. Randall’s smug smile morphed into a ghastly grimace.
‘Forgive me, then. You’re probably wondering what’s going on? Who am I kidding; you always are, aren’t you?’ And Randall launched into a rant in which he attributed the world’s problems to celebrities and the very, very wealthy. His words were maleficent and all the while he spoke, the woman stared up at him with complete reverence, as if she were listening to a divine or celestial being. Randall then turned to Laurence, pointed his finger at him, and bellowed, ‘I can become a hero by reversing the order of the world. Then those who, like me, are overshadowed by spoilt brats and their rich parents will rule this world. With the power of Pandora’s Box I can unleash a plague of ills and evils that will allow this world to start from scratch. I can wipe out those who deserve nothing, and then a new order can begin…the order of…’ Before he could finish, Laurence laughed. He couldn’t help it and he knew it was a mistake the moment he did so, but his situation was so ridiculous and Randall’s speech so melodramatic that it just came out. His captor’s eyes had turned a dastardly shade of green. ‘I don’t see anything funny about my dream, Mr Swift!’ He sounded indignant.
‘All this because of your jealousy of others? When it comes down to it you’re nothing but a cowardly, envious schoolchild!’ Randall rushed up to Laurence incredibly quickly and smacked him hard between the eyes.
‘I am not a school child! I am the most powerful man in the world! I possess the power of a God and very soon I shall be praised as one!’ A whining sound started to emerge from his lips which developed into a thunderous cackle that sent a chill down Laurence’s spine.
‘But you must realise that, even if it were Pandora’s Box, all that would be left inside would be hope?’ Laurence thought for a moment he had beaten Randall but, after a short pause in which he stared up at the ceiling, the megalomaniac began to shout as if possessed by the devil himself.
‘Exactly, and hope is the worst peril of all; the belief that things will get better, the vain thought that everyone has a chance and all can succeed. It is all a lie. By giving people hope you destroy them and make them bitter and twisted.’
‘Talking of destruction, why the need to blow yourself up?’ Laurence jerked his head to the side inquisitively.
‘When you are alive, facing financial difficulties and a renowned lover of antiquities, and Pandora’s Box is stolen, you will be the subject of intense speculation! Nobody suspects a dead man; it was the perfect alibi. The British government wanted a return of their investment; well here it is! At tonight’s sacrifice, on the platform below us, I will open the Box, and then a new order can begin; the order of…’
Laurence cut in swiftly, ‘What sacrifice?’
‘Will you please stop interrupting me in the middle of my speech? I am conducting a human sacrifice, to purify the box and to appease the Gods. I have you to thank actually, Mr Swift, for you have provided the perfect sacrifice in that charming young girlfriend of yours. As beautiful as Pandora herself, don’t you think? I’m sure the Gods will be delighted with her.’ He smiled devilishly at Laurence, who raised his head, lifted his chin high into the air and said,
‘You black-hearted scoundrel, I won’t let you!’ He tried to surge out of his seat and though the pressure he exerted on them made them buckle a little, Randall struck him with the back of his sinewy right hand.
‘Don’t embarrass yourself, Mr Swift. Do you really think you could defeat me? You’re nobody, nothing. Until that idiot Gilliand recommended you I’d never even heard of you, and it doesn’t seem that anyone else ever will either.’ Randall patted the woman on the shoulder and she rose from her seat, brandishing...a scalpel! Randall gave her a nod and strutted over to Laurence, placing a clammy palm on his cheek. ‘Goodbye, Mr Swift. I shall leave you with my close acquaintance, Bernadette Kropp. I’m sure she’ll entertain you.’ Randall let out a short grunt of satisfaction and headed out of the door, leaving Laurence alone with the harridan.
Bernadette closed in so closely on Laurence’s face that their noses were almost touching. Laurence began to sweat in fear; her eyes seemed black and when she smiled at him she displayed teeth as yellow as custard and as crooked as a stick. She backed away from him, turning on her elevated heels and said,
‘Mr Swift, I am not a monster.’ She had a powerful accent that came straight out of Eastern Europe.
‘Oh but the resemblance is uncanny!’ Laurence replied, which brought a black look from Bernadette and a hard slap. How many times was he going to be hit in the face today, he wondered to himself. No matter how many times it happened he would never be used to the stinging sensation it brought.
‘Mr Johnson has instructed me to...kill you. But he didn’t say in what way or how quickly. So I’m going to take my time with you and I’m going to enjoy myself, Mr Swift.’ Bernadette twisted the scalpel round her fingers, showing great artistry in control. She held it now like a pen, and placed it just below Laurence’s left earlobe. Was it too late for him to reason with her? Yes, she looked like a maniac. She was holding a scalpel, like a maniac. Laurence couldn’t reason with his six-year-old nephew to give him his wallet back, let alone this scalpel-wielding harpy. She held the scalpel aloft and it glinted as it caught the light of the lamp. Suddenly, Laurence’s thigh began to tingle. Was it possible that he was so nervous his legs were beginning to shake? No, actually; the mobile phone Wesley had given him was vibrating. Bernadette was alarmed,
‘What is that?’ She pulled the phone out of his pocket and stared at it as if she had never seen a phone before. She held it upside down and looked at it from every angle and the phone kept on vibrating. She turned her puzzled face towards Laurence, ‘How do I stop this vibrating?’ She placed her deep fingernails into Laurence’s cheek, her inevitably red painted nai
ls pressed into his sore cheeks. She drew them down and this left a nasty trio of scars.
‘Push the red button,’ For once in his life, Laurence was treating someone else like an idiot. Bernadette did as she was bid, and then immediately regretted it, for a sudden burst of smoke came out of the earpiece and clouded the room. Bernadette coughed uncontrollably and Laurence did too. The door behind Laurence was smashed down and in rushed Wesley, his face cut in two places, no doubt from an altercation somewhere else in the building, and he began to untie Laurence. Bernadette, who had fallen to the floor as the gas erupted into her face, got up and thrust the scalpel into Wesley’s arm. He roared in pain but Laurence, with his left leg now free, kicked the scalpel out of her hand and then kicked her in the face, causing her to fall down again. She groped around on the floor for the weapon, for the cloud of smoke was now so intense it was hard to make anything out at all. Wesley regained his composure and continued to untie Laurence, who noticed Bernadette was coming back for more. ‘Watch out!’ He shouted, and Wesley turned around with a pivot as elegant as any ballet dancer. It was not quick enough for Bernadette swiped the blade across his stomach, ripping his shirt open and giving him a not insignificant cut across the belly. He didn’t allow the wound to deter him for long; he pushed her arm away as she lunged for him again, before punching her in her foul face. She fell to the floor for a third and final time. Wesley had knocked her out. It was ironic Laurence thought, as Wesley undid the other straps of the chair and he clambered out of it, that for a woman with an obsession with the colour red, the red button of his phone had been her undoing. Laurence and Wesley thanked each other and slapped each other’s arms.
‘What happened to my phone?’ Laurence asked.
‘Oh that? Just a little gift from the government; pressing the red button sets off a smoke alarm.’ Wesley said. Laurence smiled and was suitably impressed, dragging Bernadette into the chair and strapping her in.
‘I don’t believe it.’ Laurence said.
‘I know, impressive eh?’
‘I didn’t realise there were geniuses in the government!’
Wesley laughed, and, gesturing towards the now manacled Bernadette, said, ‘Well, she won’t be going anywhere soon.’
‘But we are Wes; we’ve got to get to the sacrifice, they’ve got Brigitte!’ Before Wesley could agree, Laurence had sprinted past him and down the corridor in search of an exit that would lead him to the end of his journey, and maybe to the end of life itself.
Chapter Ten
What a Site
