by Kolin Wood
What happened next drew an audible murmur of surprise from the spectating crowd. Before he had time to strike, Mitchel was shoved roughly in the side, with a blow that sent him sprawling sideways into a table, out of Pock’s line of sight.
Another shape moved into view above him. It was Doyle.
“Leave him alone, Mitchel… he ain’t done nothing to you,” Doyle said firmly.
Pock glanced over at Mitchel and then back to Doyle in disbelief. Finally! Somebody had stepped in. Better than that, it was not only somebody, but Doyle, about the only person in the prison who had ever offered him so-much as a kind word. Doyle, the only lad in the prison big enough to perhaps take Mitchel on.
Clearly annoyed, Mitchel stood straight and rolled his shoulders. His face was red. Pock was unsure whether it was due to anger or embarrassment, guessing perhaps both. Not wanting to lose face, Mitchel raised his fists and spat between his teeth again, anger resonating in his hastily-darkening features.
“You don’t want this, Doyle,” he said, advancing with more caution than Pock had ever seen from him before.
Doyle did not move. He stood steadfast, neither mirroring the aggressive stance of his adversary nor backing off as much as a step. He turned slightly to the side and tucked in his chin, brow dipped, gait confident.
“Take your best shot,” he said, his voice calm and unfazed.
Mitchel swallowed and looked around, double-checking the other faces to see if there was anybody of use nearby. But nobody caught his eye or offered any type of assistance. The crowd stayed put, transfixed on the exchange between two of the biggest lads in the institution. However, the look around did not go unnoticed by Doyle. He smiled, aware that he had won the first round of the psychological stand-off.
“Just leave the lad be, and we can both go back to our dinner,” he said, attempting to de-escalate the situation.
Mitchel, sensing some room to claw back a little of the respect he had lost, moved into range. But Doyle was a big guy; he stood well over six foot and had a trunk-like chest and thick legs and arms. As Mitchel stood up against him, the physical disadvantage he was at became clear. Psychotic or not, it would take some doing to overpower the larger lad, and he knew it.
With violence imminent, Doyle tried again. “The General ain’t gonna have you picking on his favourite little plaything, now is he?” He gestured down to Pock who was still sprawled on the floor by the upturned chair. “Think this through… you wanna end up out there?” he said, flicking a thumb to one of the windows. “Or worse?”
Mitchel sneered, visibly regaining some of his composure. Doyle had cleverly offered him a lifeline; a way out without losing any more face in front of the lads. Pock watched, eager to see whether his bully would take it, hoping inside that he wouldn’t. Perhaps Doyle would end up doing the job for him.
“Yeah? I’d like to see him fucking try it,” Mitchel sniffed, his eyelids hooding over. “But still… none of you are worth the blood on my knuckles.”
With that, he turned and kicked one of Pock’s feet. “This ain’t over… you and me got unfinished business!” He pointed a finger down at him. “Next time I see you… it’s on. You hear me, pussy?”
Pock did not reply; he simply stared up from the floor and pulled his legs in towards his body. He felt himself sigh inside, but showed no emotion.
Mitchel then fixed Doyle with a look that ran from his boots to his head. “And you… you best stay outta my way, Doyle, or I’ll cut your fucking throat in your sleep!” And with that, he pushed his way through the crowd and was gone.
Doyle leaned over, offering Pock one of his club-like hands and pulled him easily to his feet. Those still surrounding the group slowly began to disperse.
“Thanks,” Pock managed, wiping specks of spit from his own reddened cheeks.
The bruise under his eye was hot and he could feel it starting to swell.
“Don’t mention it.” Doyle shrugged, picking up a chair and setting it back at the table. “The lad’s got serious attitude problems.” He smiled; a rarity on its own. “But you’re gonna have to learn to stick up for yourself, even against animals like that.”
Life returned to Pock’s eyes and he realised that he had been staring. He looked away, embarrassed, nodding and bending to clean up some of the mess from his upturned tray. He had always liked Doyle. What he lacked in intellect, he made up for in heart, an almost unheard of trait now.
“He’s too arrogant and too stupid to survive,” Pock said as he scooped up his cutlery from the floor, managing to catch himself before he said anything more. He didn’t want to give his plan away, not now that it was back on track.
Doyle, obviously surprised at the steely retort, snorted a laugh and leaned in, slapping him on the shoulder. “Good for you, mate!” he said jovially. The near-altercation really had not shaken him much at all. “Just maybe don’t let him hear you say that… not today anyhow, huh?” Then smiling again as he turned, he walked away without looking back.
The crowd had nonchalantly gone back to their meals, the incident of only moments before totally ignored. Pock put his hand to his smarting mouth and his fingers turned red with blood. Images of alternative, violent endings to the confrontation etched themselves into his throbbing brain.
Soon, he thought to himself as he looked around at the boys eating at the various tables. Soon, the walls and floors of this evil place will echo with your screams and glisten with your blood.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Harold pushed open the heavy door to the surgery and walked in. The room was icy cold. A sharp, almost vinegar tang hung in the air. In one hand, he held a tin of cold pasta and boiled potatoes - tonight’s attempt at dinner - which he set down on a metal bench along with the brass lamp. Tonight, Harold would need the sustenance; he had a feeling that it was going to be a long one.
He bent and lit the wick inside then delicately closed the thin and decorative antique clasp on the small, glass door. A good sphere of light—far better than his usual candles—emanated outward in a bright halo. The lamp had been one of the more useful spoils from the recent foraging trip; all that everybody else had cared about was the food and the booze—luxuries that would be short-lived.
Beside him, a book lay open on a page showing a man’s face in a crudely painted fashion. In the picture, the top of the illustrated man’s head had been removed and set to the side in a clean chunk like a slice of birthday cake, revealing a cross-section of the skull. It was lacking detail, a bit like the type of illustrations found in teenage books of anatomy and science, but there was enough there to get him started. He’d spent a good half hour the previous night looking it over.
He picked up the lamp by the brass handle on the top and walked over to the centre of the room. At its core, the temperature seemed to drop even further, and he pulled the bloody white doctor’s coat tightly around him. He would need to warm up his hands if he was going to be able to do anything in there tonight. His knuckles popped loudly as he cracked them in the quiet of the dead space.
The gurney was standing at an upright angle on stiff brackets. The thick, grey, restraining straps were filthy and black with dried gore, and he thought that they were probably far stiffer than they had ever been before. Firmly strapped in place on the sticky padding beneath was a man. The man was big. Harold had no doubt that without the straps to restrain him, the brute would have snapped him in half. But the thick, industrial strength nylon straps with their huge, steel buckles and ratchet-style tightening system would hold a mountain gorilla in place. There was nothing to fear here.
A blood-stained pillowcase that had been pulled tight over the man’s head and tied at his neck with cordage, moved slightly—the man was still alive; a bonus indeed. Harold gripped the top and pulled but it did not budge; the blood on the covering had obviously dried hard. He pulled again, more violently this time, tugging until eventually there was a rip and the hood came free, bringing with it a thick, matted lock of hair.
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br /> Harold stared, mouth agape.
The face beneath the hood was so malformed it looked as though it had been used as a football. The nose was clearly broken, and his nostrils flared open and closed with obvious difficulty as they struggled to bring air rattling through the smashed cartilage. The mouth was split in multiple places and had been filled with a dirty rag and then taped over. Both eyes were almost swollen shut, leaving only a hint of their blue colour shining through.
Harold moved closer, staring deeply into them, wanting to get a measure of his prisoner. Fear, confusion, and pain were present, even though the man was trying very hard to disguise it from him. But there was also something more; a look, darkened with murderous intent and a streak of strength, flickering away deep in the back. It was a look that made him feel something that he had not felt before, an unusual sensation, and one which he decided he liked; it was exciting.
Harold put the flat of his palm against one cut and swollen cheek in an almost tender gesture. “Shhhhh… relax now,” he said, stroking the mangled and grizzly face softly. “There’s a good boy.”
As if furious with the condescension, the man began to thrash wildly, sending specks of dried blood flying everywhere. The three straps—one on his chest, one around his middle, and the third around his knees—stopped anything but the movement of the hands, feet and head. Harold found it quite humorous to watch even though there was clearly plenty of fight left in there.
Once the man had fallen calm again, Harold again reached out, tenderly setting a hand down on the matted mess of his hair. “To witness such a spectacle as the breaking of a man,” he said. “And not just a man, but a tough, proud man. Truly, it is the most beautiful of things.”
When the head fell forward, Harold put his fingers under his subject’s chin and tilted it back again; he was not finished. The hate was still there, burning like a small inferno in the back of the man’s barely-visible eyes.
“I think everyone believes that somewhere deep inside, a fire burns within them… that there is something inside that will surprise him in the face of adversity; something that will kick in when he needs it to. When, for example, he needs to save those he loves—his family perhaps.” Harold’s eyes twinkled as he skilfully played the strings of the man’s heart. “You, sir, should be proud! Your internal flame burns brighter than most that I have come across. Rest assured that your loved ones will go to their graves knowing that you did everything in your power to stop the savagery; which, I might add, is taking place at this minute to each and every one of them.”
With that, more thrashing ensued.
Harold softened his face, thinking for a second about his own moments of courage. There had been very few. It was a shame he could not keep this subject alive longer just to study him; he was sure he could learn much. But it would be far too risky so not really an option; and besides, he had mouths to feed downstairs.
He sighed. “All men have a breaking point… a point where the brain will buckle and he will succumb to anything, to any demands made of him, however whimthhical.” The lisp came again from nowhere. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop his lips from playing with certain words. And the more he thought about it, the worse it became. He patted the back of the man’s neck and frowned as if genuinely sharing in the despair before turning back to the bench. “The strongetht pillars may crumble last, but they will crumble if the weight put upon them is thuffithient.”
In a set of drawers to the right of his main desk were the tools of his trade. He opened each drawer in turn and with purposeful precision, carefully removed instrument after instrument, occasionally running his fingertips along an edge to check on their non-existent sharpness with over-dramatic earnest. He laid each item gently on the top of the desk, in order, facing in exactly the same direction; a surgeon would expect no less.
“I heard what you and your family did at the house and I have to thay, I was impresthed.” He closed the drawer and spun on the spot, animatedly, speaking slowly in an attempt to combat his increasing lisp. “It is not easy to get the better of the General, let alone capture his entire brigand. Well done, you.”
He flexed a pair of surgical scissors in his spiny fingers and brought them close to the man’s face, listening to the slight squeak from the single un-lubricated hinge screw at their centre. They would have to do.
“Awful shame. Beautiful little family you have too,” he said. “And a handsome, if not slightly chunky, wife.”
He took a step forward.
“Horrid to think what those primitives will be doing to her right now. Vile creatures to the very latht of them. Sthtill, at least you know that it will be short lived, they will soon tire of her; the little fuckers are so spoiled for choice.” Then, as if he were studying a statue in a museum, Harold cast his eyes down the man’s body. “I can’t say the same about that lovely daughter of yours though; she might well be doing the rounds for months to come.”
The man in the gurney erupted. He bellowed into his gag, eyes now fully ablaze, the veins in his neck full and plump and looking like they might pop free from his bruised and paled skin. The steel frame squeaked as he smashed forwards and backwards in a diabolical rage, the back of his skull slamming continuously into the modestly padded base.
Harold, worried the gurney might topple, grabbed one of the cold rails tightly. “ENOUGH! Now, my big friend, all the tantrums in the world will not change what is to become of you. Please just take heart… you died honourably. I will be sure to tell your daughter—if she’s still alive—that her father was a hero.”
He brought the scissors up in front of the man’s face, eliciting a moan. Smiling at the response, Harold traced the hairline down to his ear with the point then lower, barely touching skin. As he hovered over the bulging jugular in his thick neck, the man froze.
“Still, none of this will be any fun without a little company, whadya say?” And with that, Harold withdrew the scissors and walked back out of the main door, leaving the man alone once again.
The office-style chair was where he had left it outside in the corridor, and he struggled with its weight as he pushed it back into the room, wincing at the sound of the stiff, loudly squeaking wheels.
“Hi, honey, we’re home!” he cried then laughed a high-pitched, awkward, and nasal laugh. Just out the man’s line of sight he stopped, wiping the sweat from his spot-filled forehead with the sleeve of his dirty technician’s coat. “Didn’t want you to think I am prone to favouritism.”
He left the chair where it was and moved back in front of his captive.
The prisoner lifted his head. Harold paused. He could now see nonchalance in his eyes, as if the man was unconcerned with the consequences.
“Good for you,” Harold mocked, nodding as if seeking the approval of a non-existent audience. “The threat of death is enough for many, indeed most, of the people that I have had through those white doors,” he said, pointing. “It’s nice that I do not have to fight with an inconsolable thobbing mess… a rarity, to thay the leatht.” He screwed tight his eyes, trying in vain to fight his rising stigmatism. “Now, I am going to cut free your gag and allow you some time to speak, pray, clear your conscience—whatever you think it is that you need to do—but, my big friend, so much as a thingle thwear word comes out of that mouth of yours in my direction, and I will slice off your tongue with these thcithorth—scithors—and make you eat it. Do we understand each other?”
He stood with the scissors raised high and his head bowed, like a judge waiting for a plea bargain, drunk on power.
The man just fixed him with the same murderous stare as sweat beads dripped down the sides of his face. After what seemed like a whole silent minute, he nodded, closing his eyes.
“Very good.”
Harold slid the scissors gently into the gap between the tape and the skin by the side of the man’s mouth. The tape had been wound thick and it took a little while for the blunted steel to slice all the way through. The wet reek from undernea
th the vestige as it came loose, caused him to turn his head as he pulled, but he was pleasantly surprised at how easily it freed itself once he had gotten started. He looked up, and then slowly pulled free the filthy, sopping wet cloth from his mouth before tossing it away in disgust.
The man took in a deep and wheezy breath. Phlegm rattled in his lungs and worked into his throat, causing him to cough.
Harold took a step away, fearing backlash from the flying spittle and wiped at his coat in mock tolerance. “Charming,” he said as he walked around the back of the upright gurney ever so slowly, giving the man a chance to recover himself a little.
Once full circle, he stopped, facing him again. “Now then,” Harold began. “Some introductions, perhaps?”
He held out his hand towards the gurney in a futile attempt at a handshake, revealing a blood-soaked cuff.
The man looked down, unable to move, a thin trail of drool hanging from his bottom lip.
“Oh, how thoughtleth of me,” Harold continued, retracting his hand and wiping it on his dirty slacks.
“Still, handshakes aside, I’m Harold… Harold Elm.” He looked around again as though convincing himself that the name stood for something to somebody else. “I suppose that you could refer to me as The Doctor here in this wonderland paradithe of blithfully dangerouth delinquentth.” Ignoring the lisp, he smiled as if pleased with himself. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance. And you are?”
“Bennet,” the man said. “Bennet Marshall. His voice was hoarse and rough, deep and dry. Harold surmised that he had probably not had a drink since the beginning of his incarceration.
“Bennet? Seriously?” he said, excitedly. “How wonderful! Such a fine name for a man of such powerful thtature!”
Harold gripped Bennet’s thick, muscular arm, squeezing as if to prove his point. Releasing, he slowly moved to the desk, picked up a bottle of cloudy water and unscrewed the top, and then walked just as slowly back.
