Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [91]
Every nerve in his body wrapped in a tiny parcel of boiling tar.
Had to tighten the ligature round his arm, stop the bleeding. But he'd dropped the ends when he'd opened his mouth to scream. Had to fumble around, try to find them. Couldn't concentrate on that now.
The pain. Jesus Christ. Had to control that first. How he fucking wished he could take this back. He'd gladly sit here, wait for the police to arrive. Nothing wrong with that. The fuck had he been thinking?
Focus. Had he done the job? After all this, it'd be a shitter if he'd fucked it up. Needed to have cut all the way through. Couldn't tell, though, without being prepared to pull the sword out. Couldn't face that. Not yet. Just had to sit here. For a minute. Not pass out. Stay awake. For Christ's sake, stay awake.
Pulsing. The pain was pulsing now. Waves swelling. Floating on it. Getting carried along by it. Wondering if he was in shock. Probably.
Stuttered breaths. Sobbing. Eyes wet. Drooling. Something hot and warm trickling down his wrist, licking his fingers.
He could feel that, the warmth on his fingers. His fingers shouldn't be able to feel anything. Did that mean the blade hadn't gone clean through? Shit. Or was he imagining it? Tried to move his index finger. Thought he'd succeeded. But maybe he had a phantom hand. Always hearing about people getting limbs lopped off and their brains not accepting the loss. Maybe his brain wasn't accepting that his fingers were gone. Fuck. He needed to whip the blindfold off and see exactly what he'd done to himself. But of course he couldn't do that.
Shaking now like he had a vibrator up his arse. Moaning like a prison whore. Crying, for fuck's sake.
Okay. He could try to move his arm. If he'd cut clean through, he ought to be able to pull it away. Of course, if he hadn't, this was going to hurt much worse than it did already.
"Fuuuuuuuuuck."
Nothing.
His brain was blocking any signals to his arm that might cause more pain. Couldn't move.
Fuck his brain. He'd kick the shit out of it, bastard thing.
Well, his brain wasn't making any decisions for his other arm. Luckily, it was still thinking for itself. He reached for the sword handle. Palm cold and sticky with sweat. Pull the blade out now. Had to. Then slip the cuff off and he'd be free.
Treat this like tearing off a plaster. Do it quickly. Short and sharp.
Yeah.
Held his breath and—motherfuckingcuntbastard—breathed out again.
No chance, then. Maybe he'd try it the other way. He lifted the handle slightly, testing the blade. Didn't feel any new pain, felt no resistance, no give. Moved it again, a little further, and liquid fire spewed through his veins.
He yelled until he was out of breath. Filled his lungs. Yelled again. Yelled until his throat hurt. Must be delirious cause he heard Effie say, "Dad." Yeah. He was losing it. Going to pass out. The blade was stuck in his wrist. He wasn't going to be able to shift it. So he was a dead man. Might as well just close his eyes, let the greyness take him.
Heard her voice again, closer: "Dad. Dad?"
Couldn't help himself. "Effie?" Crazy, talking to her. But then he'd talked to her when he was in prison. At night. In his cell when he couldn't sleep. Sure, he'd talked to her. He'd talked to Grant, too. Some of the cons prayed to God. But Park was a family man. And he was head of the family. God didn't get a look in.
Savage's voice: "Cover your eyes, Jordan."
Park heard footsteps moving towards him. Urgent: "Dad?"
"Effie?" Took a lot of effort to say her name. Wanted to let go. Just say fuck it to everything. Shut down.
"We have to get him to a doctor," she said.
"Oh," Savage said. "Now that's funny."
"He'll lose his hand if we—"
"And Phil and Fraser? What about their hands?"
A pause.
"Jordan?"
"I'm going to throw up, Dad."
"Well, I did tell you to stay in the van."
***
JORDAN LEFT THE bedroom. Best thing for him, Tommy thought. Pretty horrible sight for a kid to see. Naked bloke hacking his wrist off with a sword. Not much better out on the landing, mind you, where