I took it and was about to enquire what it contained but he was way ahead, said,
“You don’t want to know. Try to jab it in the neck. Works faster and I’m thinking we won’t have a whole lot of time.”
I’d set up my kitchen, in the optimistic wish that we would actually grab one of them and could haul the crazy body back here.
Day four, I was beginning to think I was as nuts as Stewart implied. Standing across the street from the head shop, the syringe in my right pocket, way back in the shadow of a doorway, and forcing the talk with Irini out of my mind. I nearly missed the movement.
Then
Jesus, the girl, Bethany, setting up camp in the alley next to the shop. I fumbled for the mobile, got Stewart, rushed,
“She’s here, right next to you.”
A sharp intake of breath from him, neither of us really prepared for the fact of my prediction working. I added, trying to keep the panic at least one sentence away,
“Come out of the shop real fast, don’t give her time to think about it, cross the street. When you get to your car, drop your keys and bend down to retrieve them.”
He said,
“Jack, you ready for this? You really don’t want to fuck this up.
Tell me you know what you’re doing.”
I clicked off.
Best to keep him on high alert.
A minute later, he emerged, looking for all the world like a young harassed entrepreneur, and did exactly as I said. Nearly got run over as he pushed across the street. It worked, took her by complete surprise, but she rallied.
Went after him.
I moved.
She was looming over the bending Stewart when I hit her with the needle. She never sensed me, so sure was she of her prey. I plunged the needle into her jugular, slapped the Stanley knife easily from her hand, grabbed her as she began to crumble, pulled open the back door, shoved her in. Stewart was right: that concoction was fast. I could hear a slight whimper from her. Now, the rough part. Stewart was in the driver’s seat. I took a deep breath, leant against the door, nonchalance personified, lit a cig, scanned the area, and saw nothing, and heavens blessed, heard no sirens. My nerves only evident in the flicking of the Zippo. I knew Stewart was going crazy and to see me leaning against the car must have upped his anxiety to a whole new level. I risked a glance into the backseat. She was out.
Phew-oh.
I stubbed the cig under my boot, casually slid into the shotgun seat. Stewart was shaking, and, as I watched, he reached in his pocket, took out a pill, dry-swallowed it. I asked,
“Thought you didn’t take dope.”
He waited as he let the pill slide down, said,
“Thought I didn’t abduct people either.”
He let out a breath, put the car in gear, said,
“Your apartment, right?”
I nodded and we got out of there. Our insane luck held and we got to the apartment without any attention or screams of outrage. Carried the girl to the apartment. Inside, we faced the hard kitchen chair, lined with tarpaulin. For show, on the counter, were a range of what looked like surgical instruments, gleaming like terror. If she was like most young people, she’d have seen:
Saw,
Hostel,
The Ring, and all the other gruesome torture flicks doing the biz. Her imagination would do the rest.
Convinced Stewart, who croaked,
“You’re not seriously going to use… those?”
I didn’t look at him, said,
“I seriously don’t know.”
We put her in the chair and I produced the rope. Stewart went pale, said,
“Jesus, Jack, are we going too far?”
I lost it, ranted,
“We? The fuck is the we shite? You’re going to fuck off for an hour, have some Zen time, and when you return, I’ll have the answers.”
He left reluctantly, reiterated,
“One hour?”
“Yeah, fucking time me if you like.”
Slammed the door. Maybe that, or the drug wearing off, but I heard Bethany stir. I turned back into the apartment. The next hour is not something I ever want to think about, ever. Two voices running rabid in my head. The first:
“Torturing and psychologically destroying a young girl. Is this what you’ve slithered your way down to?”
The second:
“The devil drives.”
I clung to this as it elaborated,
“She is a stone killer. Preys on the weak and vulnerable and about to go after a special needs school.”
Her eyes widened as I approached and she spat,
“Taylor.”
I held up my mutilated hand, said,
“Now you get a choice. Tell me what I want to know without any incentives.”
Threw a glance at the ugly shining instruments, as she did, continued,
“Or we can do it your way. Sorry I don’t have a headstone but you’ll find it’s memorable anyway and, trust me, you’ll talk, so why not spare us both the grief?”
I moved back as she roared,
“Fuck you, alkie.”
I took the other kitchen chair, sat cowboy style, my arms resting on the back. She looked at the bindings, spat,
“Into bondage, is that it?”
I said,
“You wanted Stewart, he’ll be back soon.”
She took a fast look at my hand, said,
“Could almost pass for normal. Almost.”
I rose from the chair, took out a bottle of Jameson, poured a measure, knocked it back, asked,
“Thirsty?”
Her eyes pleaded yes but her body held fast. I pushed,
“Why did you pose as Ronan Wall’s sister?”
A snicker, then,
“You dumb arse, he’s my lover.”
I smiled and she instantly realized her error. I said,
“So now we have one name. Just yours and the other two losers to go. Oh, and the special needs school. I’ll need to know where and when?”
Her eyes darted around. Being alone with me was not giving her much confidence but she tried,
“What are you going to do, kill me? You haven’t the balls for that.”
She was right and I was having serious reservations about being able to do this. Truth is, she looked kind of pathetic and vulnerable. But by pure awful chance, the sun chose that exact moment to send a brief ray of light through my kitchen window and it hit on a gold pendant around her neck, just a glimpse of it, but it shone. Oh Jesus, did it ever. The Claddagh jewelry I’d bought for Laura. She was wearing it.
Rage engulfed me. I snapped it from her neck, and she laughed, said,
“Oh, was that for your American floozy?”
My Walther PPK was in her purse. I gritted my teeth, asked,
“Where is the Medugorje relic I was wearing?”
She smiled, said,
“We threw it in the trash. We don’t believe in all that bullshit religious mumbo jumbo.”
I stood, trying to control the ferocious violence her words aroused in me. Said,
“Believe this.”
I moved to the fridge, took out a bottle of water, asked,
“Is sparkling OK?”
We were done a good ten minutes before Stewart returned. I’d released her from her bonds, led her to an armchair where she curled up in the fetal position, whimpering like a savaged puppy.
There wasn’t a mark on her.
That you could see.
She was, in Irish,
“Briste.”
Broken.
I put a mug of Jameson in her hand. She needed both hands to hold it, then gulped it down lest I withdraw it. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Thank Christ.
Back in my early days, I was assigned to the Border. One wet dark Friday, Stapleton and I were sent to Belfast, a few weeks before Bloody Sunday. Told,
“Keep your mouths shut, the sound of your brogues would have the UVF all over ye.”
Civilian clothes, of course. We had no idea why we were going and, to this day, I’m sure the ones who sent us hadn’t a clue either. Those days, it was retaliation and madness. Still is but with a political sheen to gloss over the uglier aspects.
Saturday night, we were taken to a dank dark basement on the outskirts of the city. No idea if we were the ones who might be sacrificed. No one knew anything then, save it was possible the next atrocity was you. We were being taught a lesson. Here’s how it went down.