by David Barry
‘Mmm-hmm,’ he grunted, slid his arms round her waist and nestled a kiss into her neck.
‘You’ll have the neighbors gossiping,’ she whispered.
‘Let them,’ he said, then drew back from her and looked into her eyes. ‘I love you, Louise. Never forget it. ‘
She frowned. ‘What a funny thing to say. Why should I forget it?’
‘I just want you to know that I’ll always love you. ‘
‘That’s good,’ she replied, and pecked him on the nose. ‘Because I love you too. Now then, your daughter’s asleep in the backyard, in the shade of the apple tree. I expect you want to say hello to her. ‘
‘I’m hot and sweaty,’ he said. ‘Think I’ll freshen up first. By then she might be awake. She can watch her daddy weeding the flower bed. ‘
Louise giggled, a slightly puzzled expression on her face. ‘Wouldn’t it be more sensible to freshen up after the gardening?’
Bill tugged his shirt away from his chest to demonstrate how sticky he was. ‘I need a shower, Louise; otherwise you and Jenny won’t want to know me. ‘
After Bill had showered and changed into a pair of denims and an old check shirt which he wore for gardening, he went out the back and peered into his daughter’s pram. She looked beautiful and he thought she was perfection itself. There was no other baby in the world like his Jenny. She had a tiny button nose and a very slight breeze stirred her silky, golden wisps of hair. He stroked the downy hair, then couldn’t resist the urge to lean over and kiss the top of her head. The sensation was exquisite, like kissing rose petals.
Louise’s shadow appeared across the lawn. ‘You must be thirsty. I’ve brought you some lemonade. ‘
Bill took the cool glass and toasted her with it. ‘Here’s to the happiest family in the world. You having any?’
Her eyes sparkled as she smiled at him. ‘I’ll be out in a minute. I just want to finish the apple pie I’m making. ‘
He beamed at her, and watched the alluring sway of her figure as she returned to the house. He glanced into the pram one more time before kneeling down beside the flower bed. He picked up a small fork and dug into the sun-hardened soil, humming absently the same phrase of a tune, over and over.
Louise was kneading dough when the doorbell rang. That was odd: they weren’t expecting anyone, and it wasn’t as if they’d got to know any of their neighbors yet, at least not on a social basis. She wiped her floury hands on a tea towel and went to open the front door.
She didn’t get a chance to speak or even take in the policeman who pushed her aside, followed by another. They both had their guns drawn and were flushed with fear and the likelihood of conflict.
‘Where is he?’ one of them yelled as she was slammed against the wall. Outside she could see police cars, lights flashing, and other police and men in suits trying to crowd through the front door.
‘Your husband?’ the same policeman snapped, a frenzied look in his eyes. ‘Where is he?’
Louise was incapable of thought or speech. She cringed back against the wall, unable to form a single coherent thought.
One of the policemen had gone through to the kitchen and had spotted Bill in the back garden. ‘There he is!’
Bill vaguely aware that there was a commotion going on somewhere, and thinking it was a neighbor playing a radio too loud, turned just as the shadows loomed across the lawn. There were four uniformed cops and three detectives, all with guns aimed at him.
‘Put the cuffs on him,’ one of the detectives said.
As he was dragged to his feet, Bill tried to focus on Jenny. In desperation he tried to glimpse the innocent face of his beloved daughter, knowing it might be the last time he would see her like this, cozy and snug beneath her blanket; but he was pulled violently away, so that he was thrown round with his back to her. His hands were yanked roughly behind him and he felt the handcuffs snap shut, pinching the skin on one of his arms. Behind the row of cops, he saw Louise staring at him, deeply shocked, her face drawn and vulnerable. It was a look that would stay with him
Three detectives questioned him at the police station. The first, a bull of a man the others referred to as Murphy, started the interrogation by slamming a nightstick onto the interview room table. His forehead glistened with perspiration and there were dark patches of sweat under his arms. His bulbous nose was purple and cratered like the moon, and there was something faintly obscene about his fleshy lips.
‘There’s a lot of justice in a nightstick,’ he said. ‘Bear that in mind, Sutton. ‘
‘I’d like to know what’s going on,’ Bill stated innocently. ‘What am I charged with?’
Murphy stared at him for a considerable time. The sneering expression on his face looked as if it was one he wore regularly, a distinctive look adopted for interrogation purposes, the nostrils of his nose slightly dilated, as though he was trying to keep from smelling something deeply repugnant on the suspect. Slowly he raised the stick and pointed it at Bill.
‘It won’t work Sutton,’ he said. ‘We’ve picked up Bassett, your accomplice, in Buffalo. And he’s confessed. There’s the small matter of the bank on Jamaica Avenue, the Bronx County Savings Bank and Rosenthal’s jewelry store. ‘
Bill knew that if Jack had confessed, then they must have worked him over. There was a limit to what a man could take, and he wondered when it would be his turn.
‘Look,’ Bill said, ‘I know my rights. You’re supposed to book me or let me go. And if you book me, I have a right to a lawyer. ‘
Fists clenched, the younger of the three detectives darted forward as if he was going to hit Bill and was fighting back the urge. ‘Scum like you,’ he hissed, leaning forward and sending a spray of saliva into Bill’s ear, ‘don’t have any rights. To have rights, you gotta pay your taxes. ‘
He seemed genuinely and personally aggrieved on this matter.
There was a loud guffaw from across the table. Murphy was laughing but there was little humor in his eyes. ‘I don’t s’pose he made a payment to the IRS from the bank jobs. Whadda yah think, Matt?’
The detective called Matt shrugged. He was thin-faced with receding hair and a cleft chin that would have looked more attractive on a chubbier face. ‘I think we’re wasting time,’ he said. ‘I think we should hear his confession. ‘
There was something obscene about his suggestion, made with the same heavy-breathing tone of a pervert.
‘You’re right,’ agreed Murphy. ‘But first let’s ask Sutton about who fenced the jewelry. It was one of the questions your partner couldn’t answer. Said you dealt with it, Sutton. ‘
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Bill said.
Murphy flipped. ‘Right! Take him down. ‘
The other two grabbed Bill and pulled him to his feet. Murphy threw open the door for them and they dragged him out, along the corridor to another door that led to a flight of steps going down into what appeared to be a cellar. When they got to the bottom, Bill saw the large gallery beneath the precinct, targets lined against a wall with spotlights over the targets. This was the shooting range, and he guessed that it would be soundproofed. The place had an eerie atmosphere and smelled vaguely musty and antiseptic. .
‘Okay. Take the cuffs off,’ Murphy told the younger of the detectives.
As he felt the handcuffs being unlocked, Bill wondered what was going on. Did they intend letting him go, maybe let loose in the shooting range and use him for target practice?
Once the handcuffs were off, two of the detectives stood either side of him and Murphy stood in front, his legs splayed wide, blocking off any means of escape.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Get undressed. ‘
The back of Bill’s throat tasted vile, like he was about to throw-up . He must have reacted slowly because Murphy socked him in the stomach, just below the bel
t. The pain shot across his lower abdomen like a rock hitting something soft. He doubled over, clutching his stomach and tears sprang into his eyes.
‘Don’t keep us waiting. Get your shirt and trousers off. You can leave your underwear. We ain’t perverts. We are merely expediting the course of justice. ‘
Murphy must have been proud of this last statement because he followed it with a laugh.
Bill’s hands were shaking as he fumbled with his shirt buttons. As soon as the bottom button was undone, one of the detectives assisted by tearing the shirt from his back. He hesitated as he started on his pants’ buttons.
‘Shed the pants,’ Murphy said impatiently, clenching his fists.
Hurriedly, Bill did as he was told. He stood before them, feeling frail and vulnerable, his pale white skin lustrous in the darkness of the gallery. His hands were thrust behind him again and he felt the handcuffs being put on. Then Murphy’s meaty hand, stubby fingers like uncooked sausages, shoved him backwards. He hadn’t noticed the thin, narrow table behind him and they laid him on his back along it, like a hospital patient awaiting an operation. There were some lockers behind the table at the back of the shooting range and Bill heard one of them being opened. Although the temperature was cool in the shooting range, rivulets of sweat ran down his body as the fear and anticipation of what was about to happen clouded his mind.
The younger detective covered Bill’s throat with a piece of material that might have been a scarf and pulled it tight over the edge of the table in a stranglehold. The thin-faced detective stood at the other end of the table and held his legs. Murphy stood alongside him rhythmically tapping a rubber hose against his palm. Bill could smell the rancid sweat from the detective’s body and he started to gag. The younger detective didn’t want him to choke on his own vomit and eased up on the stranglehold fractionally.
‘Now,’ said Murphy, ‘let’s see how much he remembers. ‘
Quick as a lightning flash, Murphy brought the rubber hose down hard across Bill’s stomach. To keep from screaming, Bill ground his teeth together. The pain was unbearable. But no sooner had his nervous system marginally recovered from the shock than Murphy brought the hose down hard again in the same place. The pain burned through Bill’s body like fire. And there was no let up. With all his strength, Murphy hit him again and again on his chest, his stomach, shoulders and thighs, harder and harder each time, sending agonies of searing pain through his entire body, so that his brain seemed to scream inside his head. Every time the rubber came in contact with his body he wanted to cry out, ask them to stop, plead with them for the pain to end. But he knew it was useless unless he was willing to confess. Suddenly the worst of the pain abated and Murphy leaned over, his face unbearably close to Bill’s.
‘Had enough, Sutton? Ready to own up to the robberies and sign a confession?’
‘I - I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Bill managed to stammer.
Murphy straightened up and gave the cleft-chinned detective at Bill’s feet a world-weary shrug. ‘They always confess in the end, Matt. ‘ he said. ‘So why go through hell when the end result is the same?’
‘Beats me,’ replied the detective.
‘No, it beats him,’ Murphy said with a nasty laugh. ‘Here. Take over. ‘
He handed the hose to the detective named Matt, and swapped places with him. A thin smile tugged at the corners of the thin-faced detective’s mouth as he came and stood alongside Bill, holding the hose in one hand while stroking it tenderly with the other, enjoying the anticipation of the beating he was about to deal out. Then he suddenly went berserk, thrashing Bill’s body with the power of a sadist.
Bill writhed in agony at each stroke, and the pain was so intense and burning he thought his body would burst open and shed his guts onto the table and floor. Like a sudden rush of water cascading over a rock, he felt himself falling, plunging downwards like a plane spiraling out of control.
The body hit the ground and burst open like a water-filled balloon, spilling blood and entrails onto the sidewalk. The street was awash with blood. The sound of a woman heaving and puking. The smell of excrement. And the pain. The unbelievable pain. Burning like fire. Burning and burning. Then nothing.
When he came round, he was lying on a bunk in a cell. He tried to move, but shards of glass shot through his body. Every part of him ached. He tried to lift his head a fraction but a grinding pain ran up and down his body as his nervous system screamed with agony. He began shivering violently. He was freezing cold, and he realized he was naked but for his underwear. He lay shivering, unable to move, and every so often the shivering stopped as the blazing pain of his torture left him feeling as if his body was on fire; and as he burned in agony, suddenly the fire was quenched by freezing water, and he shook like a heroin addict in cold turkey. Eventually, unable to stand the coldness and vulnerability of his nakedness, he raised his head. A stinging pain shot through his whole body, but he managed to raise himself onto his elbows. He stared at his stomach and legs for a moment, seeing them as something unreal, belonging to someone - or something - else. Most of his body was purple and yellow from the bruising. There was hardly an inch of flesh that was white.
On the floor, at the edge of the bunk, his denim pants and check shirt lay in a heap. He remembered these were his gardening clothes, and thoughts of Louise and Jenny drifted into his head, so that he wanted to weep. But the pain was too intense for self-pity and his eyes watered instead. He turned sideways onto the edge of the bunk and managed to swing his legs onto the floor. With a tremendous determination, he reached for his denim pants and winced as he pulled them on, his body protesting at the effort needed; and as he struggled into his shirt, every part of his torso felt raw, like open wounds, and his breath caught in his throat. By the time he had finished dressing, he was sweating feverishly and trembling uncontrollably.
He leaned back against the cell wall, hardly daring to move because of the pain. At least he was dressed now and felt slightly less vulnerable. He tried to free his mind, disassociate it from the brutal agony of his beating, and for a brief moment his mind was distracted from the physical suffering as he noticed something different about his denim pants. What was it? Then he realized there was something missing. His belt. They had removed his belt, in case he attempted to hang himself. But they might as well have left him the belt, he reflected grimly; as far as he was concerned, suicide was never an option, however bad things were.
He stared into space, his head buzzing and aching, and thought about how long he’d been lying unconscious in the cell. It could have been minutes or hours; he had no way of knowing. He tilted his head and looked into the piercing glare from the ceiling light, wondering if it was day or night. In this windowless cell there was no way of telling. Time was frozen. It was as if he had ceased to exist.
The rattle of keys in the lock caused him to start, and a stabbing pain shot through his body. The door swung open and in walked Murphy, followed by the other two detectives.
‘Well,’ he snapped, ‘ready to talk?’
‘I’ve got nothing to say,’ Bill replied.
Murphy threw the other two a sneering grin. ‘A glutton for punishment. Right! Bring him down. ‘
The two detectives grabbed Bill under the arms and raised him violently to his feet. His jaw was set tight as he fought against the rock pounding agony of his pains.
They dragged him out of the cell and along the corridor towards the shooting range door. Murphy walked behind and commented non-stop on the fate that awaited Bill.
‘Think you’re tough, eh? We’ll see about that. Maybe this time we’ll give you a breather between beatings, save you passing out on us. We can keep going a lot longer than you can, Sutton. We can go home, get a good night’s sleep, then come back fresh as a daisy and start over. Think about it, Sutton. Whatever happens, you’re gonna talk. So it might as well be now.
‘
When they reached the shooting range, Bill was again made to strip before they handcuffed him and shoved him back onto the table like a carcass on a butcher’s slab. Murphy was the first to start pounding him with the hose. This time the pain was so unbearable that he screamed. Murphy ignored it and continued whipping him like a demented torturer possessed with a crusading, self-righteous zeal to extract a confession from his victim.
Bill could feel himself sliding into unconsciousness again. But just as he was about to surrender to the blackout, the beating ceased, leaving his body aching with such excruciating pain that uncontrollable tears ran down his cheeks.
‘Okay,’ said Murphy. ‘I think he’s had enough for now. Let’s take a breather.
I could do with a smoke. ‘
They went out and left him lying on the table. He didn’t dare move. Every muscle, nerve and sinew in his body was agonizingly raw, hot bolts pounding against his body. And they intended returning soon to continue the assault. How much more could he stand? Maybe they were right. It was just a question of time. He would eventually sign that confession. There was only so much a man could take.
He lay motionless, the air ringing painfully in his ears, and every nerve in his body raw and bleeding. It seemed as if he was drifting in eternity and no longer belonged in the mortal world. Time stretched to breaking point. Then he heard the door of shooting range squeak open and their footsteps marching towards the table, magnified by the echo of the soundproofed room. He kept his eyes tight shut as if he could make the monsters vanish; but the pain was so bad now he was unable to differentiate between reality and the nightmare world into which he had fallen.
He heard the detective called Matt speak, a throaty, lustful request, a voice used when asking a girl to strip.
‘Let me have ten minutes with the son of a bitch. ‘
A scuffling sound, followed by a sudden air-whistling sound; then unbelievable pain. Bill screamed, the high-pitched cry of a wounded animal. Then another pain shot through his body. More and more agony than he could possibly bear. The pain went on and on while his screaming scraped his throat raw. Then. . .
