Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (14 page)

I made an attempt to make myself heard but it came out as a disappointing squeak because my throat was dry. Gathering what saliva I had left in the crevices of my mouth, I swallowed painfully and tried again.

“Is there anyone listening?” I bellowed the best I could.

The response was quick, direct and threatening. Straight away I knew I was dealing with a non-negotiator.

“Shut your fucking mouth!” The voice belonged to an arrogant piece of shit with a strong Irish accent.

“I need a piss!” I shouted back angrily. I wasn’t lying neither.

“Piss down your leg,” a different Irish voice bellowed back.

“You might enjoy standing in a pool of stinking fluid but I happen to have more class and dignity. I need a piss, like right now!”

Ten seconds later I heard the clatter of hard soled boots scaling a creaky stairway. I watched in anticipation as the latch lifted with a metallic clap and the door squeaked open. A tall, young man in army fatigues, reluctantly shuffled through the door. He had a spotty complexion and scraggy medium length hair tied back in a short ponytail. As he approached I noticed he had a mouthful of disorientated teeth that a dentist would have ripped out and started again.

More appropriately, he had brought the bathroom to me in the form of a dented metal bucket that he must have pinched from a local scrap yard.

I smiled, amused with the feeble effort. “How nice, personal service, I see.”

He scowled at me; the looks could kill type of expression.

“What’s going on?” I asked sharply. “Why am I being held prisoner? Who the frigging hell are you lot?”

He seemed surprised that I didn’t know the answer to my own question, but he refrained from saying anything. I wondered if he was under strict orders not to speak to me. In that case I would be right to assume he was the youngest of the bunch to earn the right to be handed the task of errand boy and his sour faced expression hardly disguised that he detested the responsibility. He placed the bucket down on the floor in front of me and was about to leave.

I stopped him with an almighty ‘Whoa!’, and super-imposed a stare of astonishment, I glanced down at the bucket, then to him, then the bucket, then to him again. I said mildly, “What am I suppose to do with that?”

Again he expressed surprise at my inability to understand the procedure to use the bucket. “You some sort of idiot?” His Irish accent differed from the others I’d already heard; therefore I was dealing with at least three warders “You piss in it!”

“From here?”

The lines on his forehead furrowed deeper

I said, “You’re not too bright, are you?”

His teeth gritted. “You’re asking for a smack in the mouth, Mister!”

“I’m more likely to get wet pants because I’m not renowned for any magical attributes, so I’m going to find it rather difficult to unzip my flies and direct my dick towards the centre of the bucket. Catch on?”

His dormant brain suddenly clicked. He blushed. “If you think I’m holding your prick, you can get fucked, you gay bastard!” With that outburst he left in an almighty hurry.

“Touchy!” I said, and watched him disappear down the stairway.

I could overhear Spotty-face moaning to his comrades about the audacity of my request and the roars of laughter that followed. Served the frigging bastard right, I thought. I would have laughed along with them only I was still desperate to avoid wet pants. I shouted through again. “I still need a piss you selfish bastards!”

The response was swifter than I anticipated. A pair of boots thundered up the stairway and to my surprise they’d sent a woman instead to attend to my needs. I’d no complaints about the choice. She was pretty for starters, slim and quite tall. She had short boyish styled brown hair swept back. Her attire consisted of tight dark military pants, a black round-necked T-shirt that stretched enticingly over the smoothness of her cone shaped breasts and she had taut muscles in her arms and shoulders. She was my type of woman; an Amazon warrior.

She frowned as she approached me. She did look more capable of smacking me in the mouth for misbehaving than Spotty-face’s feeble threat. She picked up the metal bucket. Her sparkling green eyes burned into mine and without taking her eyes from mine, she’d unzipped my flies, rustled around inside my pants and flopped out my dick with staggering speed and tucked the cold steel rim under my scrotum. Now this was a woman with talent and dominance I just had to have forever.

“Piss, Buster! I haven’t got all day!” she was bossy too, I’ll give her that much. And neither was she Irish. Her accent had me estimating North American.

While I pissed, I said, “What’s the idea of holding me against my will?”

She eyeballed me but said nothing.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to offend you, but surely we can work something out together?”

Her silence annoyed me and interrupted my flow.

“Kidnapping is against the law,” I snapped.

“Just concentrate on your bodily function, Buster.”

“I’ve a right to know why I’m being held!”

“Know this, Buster! Wet me and you’ll be wearing this bucket on your head.”

I didn’t miss and when I had finished she put the bucket unceremoniously down, tucked my dick back inside my pants and re-zipped my flies which caused me to cringe with the thought of my scrotum being caught in the zipper; it’s something you always remembered happening during your childhood.

The bitch playfully tapped the front of my pants, sort of grinned, and said, “Happy now, Buster?”

“No I’m not happy; not one bit. I’ll be happy when you tell me what the frigging hell’s going on?”

She slid the bucket across the floor with her foot. “Save your pleas for when your interrogation begins. We have a lot to discuss.”

My eyes popped out of their sockets. “What interrogation?”

She’d no intention of telling me anything further and turned to leave.

“What interrogation?” I repeated.

She closed the door behind her leaving me to swirl in my own fear.

I didn’t like the sound of this
interrogation
lark. It can make a person think too deeply about torture. I wondered if she’d said it on purpose in an attempt to weaken my resistance to questioning. Frigging hell, what could they inflict on the human body to make a person talk? A damned lot came to mind in a flash. Realistically, all they had to do with me was to tickle the bottom of my feet with a feather and I’d have told them anything they wanted to know. If she’d planned to worry me, it was working.

I could be certain of one thing. Wherever this place was that held me prisoner; it was nowhere near McClusky’s warehouse or any other frequented place. Inflicting severe pain on a person and the impending screams of agony from the unfortunate victim would be clearly heard for miles and I suspected we were miles from anywhere.

It suddenly occurred to me as to why there was a delay to interrogate me. What were they waiting for? I was awake. In prime condition to crack under extreme pressure, but they weren’t pushing ahead with their questioning. Why? Were they actually expecting me to worry myself to death instead? No. There was a more obvious reason. They were waiting for the arrival of some other mean bastard. They were waiting for the interrogator.

My body tensed. I swallowed hard with a feeling of dread. Where they waiting for Damian Love and Theodore Hate to show? Was that the reason? I’d this mental picture forming inside my head; a clear indication of them eagerly climbing the stairs in anticipation of slicing lumps out of my flesh. Frigging hell! I had to get out of here. I couldn’t hang about waiting for the worst to happen. I jerked my body forward in a frantic attempt to free my clothing from the nails. I twisted and pulled and jerked forward again. I didn’t want those bastards enjoying their revenge. I don’t mind being hit providing I’m in a position to defend myself and give back as good as I got. Yet I don’t think such callous killers would give me the chance.

Again I was jolting about like a madman in a straight-jacket, but all my efforts for freedom were useless. The clothing was too tightly nailed to get a good pull and all I achieved was to exhaust myself into submission. All I could do now was to wait for the expected consequences for prying into something I was too badly equipped to handle.

I didn’t have to wait too long before I heard the clattering of heavy boots storming up the stairs. The door flew open and bodies piled in. Stood in front of me were the woman, Spotty-face, and two bulldogs in the form of brutish looking Irishman in fatigues who moved towards me menacingly. Both men were tall and powerful looking with short cropped dark hair, and round deep-set brown eyes. They were obviously brothers, almost twin-like but separated by one of them having the mangled and battered face of a pugilist. There was no immediate sign of Love or Hate and I wondered if I’d been reprieved or even mistaken that they would be involved in this farce.

I said defiantly. “Have I done something to offend you chaps? Only I’m not usually so bad that it warrants being trussed up like this. It’s ruined my clothes I’ll have you know!”

“That’s exactly what we’re going to soon find out!”

The deep toned Irish voice echoed from behind the group and when they fanned out, a grey haired, bulbous nosed middle-aged man of medium height and supremely smart in army fatigues was standing there rigid, chest pouted, both his hands behind his back holding a short cane. He had all the hallmarks of a proud man who’d taken considerable care over his appearance and everything that should have shined did indeed shine: combat boots and the buckle on his belt.

Big-nose, (since he didn’t introduce himself, I’ll refer to him by that name) walked slowly towards me, purposely clumping down his boots on the wooden floor boards with every step, his hands still clasped behind his back.

As he neared, I said, “Great! Now perhaps you can tell me why I’m here playing frigging Jesus when it isn’t even Christmas?”

Big-nose quickened his final steps towards me and lashed me across the face with his cane. My teeth gritted both in anger and to absorb the stinging pain. His grey eyes bore into mine. “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain you imbecile.”

“It’s just a name to me. I’m an atheist.”

Big-nose suddenly rammed the tip of his cane into my throat, which left me gargling for breath. “You’ll be a dead atheist if you speak out of turn again.” He removed the cane and repositioned himself to one side of me. I wondered why and instinctively my eyes strained to follow his every movement in anticipation of another assault with his cane. He went on. “Now shall we begin by establishing that you are one of McClusky’s men?”

“I knew it!” I spurted out with relief. “You’ve abducted the wrong man.”

Big-nose arched an enquiring eyebrow. “You were guarding the rear of the warehouse.”

“The hell I was! I was spying through the window.”

“Lies won’t save your hide.”

“I intended to rob the place.”

“Hence the bag of tools found in your possession?”

“A burglar needs his tools,” I said.

“It’s a grain warehouse, not a rich man’s house.”

“There’s a safe.” I was guessing there was.

Big-nose still wasn’t convinced because his temper was something to witness as he laid into me. “Don’t lie to me! You’re one of McClusky’s men?”

“No. I’m a burglar,” I said with a touch of cockiness and almost paid the price for my insolence.

The object thrown at me from an unknown source whizzed past my face and embedded into the wooden stanchion just inches from my left ear. My head shot round. I saw Spotty face standing there with a twisted smile, displaying his horrendous bulk of teeth while holding two pub darts in his hand. I realized now that he was responsible for the embedded dart that had threatened to pin my face to the stanchion.

I eyeballed Spotty-face. “That wasn’t necessary, you creep!”

Big-nose pointed his cane at me. “Admit it. You’re one of McClusky’s men?”

I kept one eye on Spotty face’s raised hand, a dart rolling between finger and thumb. “No, I’m actually an innocent bystander.”

Big-nose tapped my shoulder with his cane. “A moment ago you were a burglar.”

“A moment ago you didn’t believe me,” I retorted.

No sooner had I finished my denial, Spotty-face threw the dart into the fleshy part of my right hand. I grimaced with the stinging sensation and quickly examined the damage. There was no blood oozing from where the dart was embedded, just a blob of pulled white skin where the dart dangled from my hand.

I threw Spotty-face a revengeful glare because given the chance I was going to ram those darts down his throat and pull them out of his arse.

Within seconds something horrible happened to me which I couldn’t control. The pain increased in my injured hand, a feeling of burning as if the dart was attempting to bury deeper into my flesh all by itself.

Big-nose smiled and thoroughly enjoyed explaining the situation to me. “You’re no doubt feeling the intensified pain-yes? Each dart tip is coated with a solution of muscle distorting serum ZX 34, originally created in Russian laboratories by bored chemists. It’s used extensively now in the Middle Eastern countries, heavily administered to prisoners inside illegal prison camps. It’s a civilised form of torture; it leaves no physical marks like a severe beating would. The serum gradually found its way to the shores of Ireland for use in nail bombs during the campaign for freedom. For the purpose of interrogation, the serum is usually injected into a chosen muscle with a syringe,” he snorted a smirk. “But our way is far more exciting.”

The pain I was experiencing made me feel sick.

Big-nose went on. “Now for the intriguing part of this exercise, when the muscle goes into spasm and you feel a tight, twisting pain, which I believe, although I have never experience the devilish stuff, is equivalent to having your muscle squashed in a mechanical vice. The suffering probably lasts approximately one minute, but whose counting. Exciting isn’t it! There is, of course, an antidote. Correct answers to simple questions.”

I just hate that moment when the tormenter proves to be right. I did feel precisely what he told me I’d feel and it hurt badly. I couldn’t even move my fingers. The pain intensified to excruciating. That invisible vice wouldn’t stop turning and there was nothing I could do until the pain finally subsided and I was left gasping for breath.