The Network - Jason Elliot [8]
‘Fuck knows,’ mutters Billy, who at the moment of replying is preparing to throw a bucket of cold water over me, which he now does. His heavy northern accent registers simultaneously with the shock of the water.
‘Sorry about that,’ says the Face, squatting down again. ‘Ran out of hot.’
My hands are tied behind my back and I cannot wipe the water from my eyes. I want to tell him this. I’m just able to tilt my head to allow a few drops to fall from my eyebrows onto my tongue, which is enough to moisten the inside of my mouth, but not more. He sees me shivering.
‘Chilly, isn’t it? Catch your death lying on a cold floor like that. Shall we get you up? Stretch your legs a bit?’ He studies my face with an exaggerated look of enquiry. ‘You can even have a go at me and Billy if you want. Get your blood going a bit. Fancy your chances?’
He raises his fists in a pantomime boxer’s stance.
‘Because we’re going to get you up now, and if you do fancy your chances,’ he says, opening the left side of his jacket to show me the paddle holster on his belt with the SIG Sauer pistol in it, ‘if you really do, we’ll shoot you. You alright with that?’
He looks up and nods towards Billy, who is behind me cutting through the plastic cable tie on my wrists. The relief is indescribable. I bring one arm over my body and the other from under me and squeeze my hands together to ease the pain in them.
‘Get up, cunt,’ says Billy in a matter-of-fact tone. I feel two strong hands pulling me up. The Face stands and steps back while Billy, who’s the larger of them, does the lifting. As I come to my feet, I lean on him more than I need to, partly to get the measure of his strength and partly to appear weaker than I am. The Face spots this ploy in an instant, and circles round me like a hyena whose prey isn’t quite dead yet.
‘Oh look, he’s feeling faint. Shall we put him back on the floor and tie him up again? Maybe something in his mouth this time? Billy? See if you can find a dead rat, can you?’ A sudden lethality enters his voice. ‘Don’t fuck around with us, soldier boy.’
So he knows I was in the army, I register, which means that my identity is known. It’s a mistake on his part, I can’t help thinking, and this error, however small, gives me a feeling akin to hope. It means these people are fallible, human. Billy is manhandling me meanwhile, spreading my arms against the wall and kicking my ankles away from it, so that I’m leaning forward like a man about to be frisked.
‘Now give the man his nice hat,’ says the Face.
Billy obliges by putting a white pillowcase over my head. I am thus deprived of any chance to observe my surroundings, but the warmth of my own breath on my face is a comfort which they can’t guess at. I’m also able to move my face without being observed. To flex my eyebrows, gauging thereby the extent of the wound to my eye, brings a feeling of secret victory. It doesn’t last. The stress position is an innocent-looking technique designed to reduce to nothing what little reserves are left to an exhausted man. After lying on the cold ground with my hands tied, the first few minutes are a relief. But soon I feel the strain on my wrists and ankles, especially where they’ve been kicked, and the pain begins to spread.
The urge to move my limbs becomes irresistible. I want first to let my head drop and relax my neck. Billy has evidently been left in the room to make sure I don’t do this. Whenever my head begins to fall, I hear his northern charm from behind me.
‘Fucking head up, cunt.’
I comply, not from fear of him but so as not to give any impression of defiance. If I show no reaction, I am winning, because I am overcoming my wishes, which requires a measure of control. I cannot change the world, but I have a tiny degree of control over my reactions, which, however infinitesimally,