So he’s hauled off his shell and dragged into your classic darkened room. The bare desk with the bright lamp, the smooth-talking but sinister questioner with the fuming cigarette, the dark figures looming in the background – I’m one of them – they’re all present and correct. All we need’s a nervous breakdown and a signature and we can be out of here and back in time for breakfast.
But our beetle’s made of sterner stuff. He knows all the tricks. He’s wise to any subtle, mental manipulation. Professional pride, I figure, but, having been an extractor of confessions, he’s unlikely to give one without an almighty struggle. Bring on the pliers, I think to myself, because he sure ain’t going for the sweet talk. And then I feel slightly ashamed of myself. Perhaps, I’m becoming desensitised.
Durham’s skewered like a pincushion, sharpened bits of this, that and the other jutting out of him at various angles. Is he bothered? Ask the stenographer. Forty-eight pages of yawns and non-committal grunts would suggest not. In fact, the written record reveals little except me losing my temper.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” I find myself yelling. “How many fucking legs do you think he’s fucking got?!”
Because the torturer can’t seem to tell where Durham starts and the beetle suit ends, the big twat keeps hammering away at extremities made of vacuum-hose and papier-mâché and wondering why he’s not getting anywhere.
After another twelve pages of nothing much, even our mild mannered stenographer’s stamping her little feet and calling him a retard and Calamari winds up asking the poor lad to leave. Then it’s grumpy faces all round as the incompetent youth takes the walk of shame and Durham bids him goodbye with six different middle fingers simultaneously. You’ll notice he hasn’t spoken yet. I’m wondering if he can. Perhaps he communicates in clicking noises?
This is all too much for Calamari who has, in the past, applied for a torturer’s position, but was turned down for being over-qualified.
He strides forward and smacks the ringing metal lamp with his massive, meaty fist – directing it into the prisoner’s bulbous eyes.
“Take the mask off.”
“No,” comes the answer in a surprising, bronchial bark. I’d expected a sustained chirrup and a quick tune played on his back leg. I have to say I’m disappointed. A black, hairy limb reaches forward for a cigarette and pokes it into the pink-lipped hole between the antler-shaped jaws on his helmet.
“I’d say it was good to see you,” he says. “I really would. Only some wanker’s blinding me with a lamp.” Master of understatement is our Durham.
I’ve told you about Calamari’s taste for the theatrical manipulation of fear. But it’s hard to get the psychological edge over a six-foot-six monster dung beetle wreathed in shadows and smoke. He cuts a menacing figure alright. So, it’s with barely concealed disappointment that Calamari orders the blackout curtains opened and we ditch the Gestapo-style melodramatics in favour of good, old-fashioned sunshine.
I guess this particular species of insect must be nocturnal – or at least realise how ridiculous he looks in broad daylight – because the helmet comes off. Where once was a tall, brooding man-beast we see a short, scowling Don Quixote in a wrinkled wetsuit. He sucks in his hollow cheeks and fixes his piggy, red eyes on each one of us in turn.
“So much for the spirit of interdepartmental cooperation,” he growls. “I look around me at your – hah! – ‘Interrogation Room’ and your – ahem, hah! – strong-arm boys here, and it occurs to me that someone’s got a different definition of the word.” And he stubs his cigarette out on the table, much to Calamari’s twitchy annoyance.
He unfolds like a Swiss army knife, striking the ash into Durham’s lap. He leans in close, his hair bristling and his flint-axe teeth glinting in a jaggedy row.
“Now,” he hisses. “How can I put this politely…” And what happens next isn’t nice.
Okay, I don’t know your familiarity with professional sadism, or how rapacious your appetite for maiming and mutilation might be, but I’ll hazard a guess, suggest it’s low, and further suggest that you keep it that way. Curiosity’s a strange impulse that can lead us into situations our sanity can’t handle. With that in mind, I’ll keep things light and leave out any references to the removal of fingernails, testicles and electric shocks, and the unfortunate things that can be done with a length of old-fashioned dynamite fuse. It might make the following harder to follow, but I figure that’s for the best. There’s a reason they call it ‘blissful’ ignorance. I will tell you that Durham spends the next ten minutes upside down. I pull my fingers from my ears and catch the next conversation midflow:
“…and you claim to be the Chief of Police,” Calamari continues. “Well, let’s examine that statement a little closer.”
“Yes, lets!” says Malmot, making yet another unexpected entrance. The door slams behind him, the air turns grey around him. He steps forward, we take two paces back. He has that effect. “What exactly are you chief of? A thriving black-market economy, perhaps? How nice. My official economy barely exists.”
“Sounding bitter,” Durham jeers.
“You’ve also got your dirty mitts on drugs, firearms, prostitution and people trafficking. Lucky you. I’ve got the ability to raise taxes that nobody pays.”
“You got the Army,” Durham spits bitterly. “You got our Army!”
“I rebuilt the Army,” Malmot corrects, “from damn-near nothing. And now the hard work’s done, you want to take it all away from me.” And he pauses. “You know, it’s the sense of betrayal that hurts the most.” And he sighs. And he smacks his former comrade in the mouth with a glass ashtray.
“What the hell is this about?” I whisper to a dark shadow standing next to me. But they don’t know either. I figure all will become clear eventually. But how long does ‘eventually’ take.
“You don’t deserve an army,” Durham taunts through split lips and crimson gushings. Malmot considers his response.
“I hope you like hanging by your ankles, because we’re going to lunch. So do try not to breathe in too much blood. Can’t have you drowning on us, can we?” He’s halfway out the door when he adds, “Oh, and just one more thing before we leave, something to mull over: We found your little subterranean bunker. Bit of a health risk. Full of vermin. So we fumigated it for you. No, don’t thank me. Do be a dear though, and sign this.”
“What is it?”
“It’s the bill. Gas doesn’t come cheap, you know. Still, you can always redirect the money from your wages bill. After all, it’s much smaller now.”
And so we adjourn to the canteen. I’ve no notion what we’ll return to. I don’t recall what I eat. I just remember fighting to keep it down.
“Ah! Still alive, I see. Excellent!” says Malmot clasping his hands together. “Well, I feel we got a little sidetracked earlier. So let’s start again, shall we, and explain why such a loyal servant of His Majesty should find himself snatched in the middle of the night.”