coffee. What he wanted more than anything was a real drink.
Joker knew it was a dream, he knew that Mick Newmarch was dead and buried in the graveyard in Hereford, but that didn’t stop the horror of what he saw. He was handcuffed to a radiator, his wrists sore from pulling against them, his arms aching from the wrenching. He was throwing himself from side to side, trying to slip out his bleeding wrists, trying to pull the hot pipe away from the wall, trying anything so that he could help Newmarch and stop the gut-wrenching screams. He kept trying to avert his eyes from what was happening in the centre of the room but the cries and the screams kept pulling him back.
His head slowly turned as if it was being forced around against his will. The lights were on in the farmhouse kitchen, the drapes drawn and shutters closed. Mick Newmarch was sprawled naked on a heavy oak table, his wrists shackled to the table legs at one end, his feet bound with hemp ropes at the other. His white skin was flecked with blood. Newmarch’s head was thrashing from side to side and he kept trying to raise his shoulders off the table like a wrestler resisting being held down for the count. Standing over him, wearing a bloodstained apron like some demented butcher, was Mary Hennessy, her blonde hair tied back with a piece of black ribbon. That was wrong, Joker knew, her hair back then wasn’t blonde, she was a brunette.
Hennessy had a pitcher in her hands and she poured water over Newmarch’s face as he struggled. The water slopped off the table, carrying with it the blood from his wounds, and they pooled together on the tiled floor in pink rivers. The procedure had been the same for more than four hours. The verbal threats, the torture, the wounding, and then, once her victim had slid into unconsciousness, the water. “Come on Sass-man, look at your friend,” she said to Joker. “Look at him. You’re next.”
She carried the empty jug back to the sink and refilled it from the cold tap. On the table, Newmarch sobbed like a baby, the cries wracking his whole body like spasms. Joker wanted to help with all his heart, but there was nothing he could do. After the first three hours she hadn’t been interrogating Newmarch: there had been no need for that because he’d told her everything. The two SAS men had been undercover, working as labourers on a farm close to the border during the day and hanging around the local pubs at night, trying to pick up any intelligence which would help the Army in its fight against the IRA. Newmarch had slipped up, his room had been searched and he’d been caught with a Smith amp; Wesson automatic under his mattress. They’d come for them at night, put black hoods over their heads and thrown them in the back of a Land-Rover. When the hoods had been removed they’d found themselves handcuffed in the farmhouse with Mary Hennessy.
She’d started on Newmarch first, for no other reason than that he’d sworn at her when she asked them for their names and rank. She’d told him in minute detail what she planned to do, and her words had chilled Joker. Not what she’d said, but the way she’d said it, as if she was relishing the experience. She’d used the bolt-cutters first, removing Newmarch’s fingers one at a time, waiting between amputations for him to regain consciousness and using a poker heated on the farmhouse range to cauterise the wounds so that he wouldn’t die from loss of blood. Newmarch had told her everything as he begged her to stop. He told her what he and Joker were doing, where they were based, previous operations they’d worked on, and the names of six other SAS men who were working undercover in the border country.
Hennessy took a large, shiny knife and held it up so that Joker could see it. “Watch, Sass-man,” she said. She held his gaze almost hypnotically, and try as he might he couldn’t look away. She reached down to Newmarch’s groin and with her left hand she cupped the man’s scrotum like a greengrocer weighing plums. She edged the blade under the testicles, keeping it horizontal. Newmarch screamed, a blood-chilling yell that echoed around the white- walled kitchen, and then slowly, almost sensually, Hennessy sliced the knife upwards, severing the scrotum. Newmarch passed out, but the silence was worse than the screaming. Joker had never seen so much blood, it poured like a waterfall over the table and splashed onto the tiles. Hennessy walked over to Joker, the ruptured tissue in her hand, and slapped him across his face, left then right. That was wrong, thought Joker, she hadn’t slapped him until later, until he was shackled to the table. He knew that he was dreaming, but the slaps kept coming, burning his cheeks. It was only a nightmare, one he’d had many times before, but the pain in his wrists was excruciating.
Slap, slap, slap. Joker opened his eyes. It was no dream, he was still hanging from the pipe and Mary Hennessy, blonde and three years older than when she’d tortured and killed Mick Newmarch, stood before him. “Wake up, Cramer,” she said. She drew back her hand and slapped him again. He blinked and felt tears sting his eyes. “Are you crying, Sass-man?” she asked.
Joker shook his head. “No,” he said. The inside of his mouth felt red raw as if the lining had been stripped away.
“How did you know Bailey was here?” she asked.
“Followed him,” said Joker. He had to keep her talking, he knew, because when he stopped talking she’d hurt him again. It was almost a game. If he kept silent, she’d hurt him. If he told her everything, she’d kill him. His only chance of survival was to extend the middle period as long as possible.
Hennessy smiled and ran her finger down the scar on his stomach. “From where?” she asked.
Joker coughed and tasted blood. Her nails scratched the thatch of hair around his stomach and slowly travelled down to his groin. “From where?” she repeated.
“The airfield,” he said.
Her hand burrowed between his legs and he felt her nails tighten around his scrotum. The movement would have been almost sexual if Joker hadn’t been so terrified and if Hennessy hadn’t had such a murderous gleam in her eyes. “How did you know he’d be there?” she said. The fingers tightened.
Joker’s mind whirled. He had to work out what she knew and what she didn’t, give her only the information she already had and spin the rest out until he could find some way of escaping. She knew he was in the SAS, she knew his real name, there was a reasonable chance that the men in New York had told her that he’d been asking questions about Bailey in Filbin’s. All of this she probably knew, so what secrets was she after? What did she want to know? The fingers squeezed, suddenly and viciously, and he screamed. His testicles felt like eggs being clamped in a vice and he was sure that one more turn and the shells would crack and splinter. Hennessy’s hands relaxed but the pain didn’t decrease, it seemed to spread up his spine and into his stomach. He drew one of his legs up as far as he could and that seemed to ease it somewhat, but it was still excruciating. Hennessy’s hand slid back to his groin and hovered inches from his aching reproductive organs. “Don’t play dumb with me, Cramer. I haven’t even started with you yet. Remember Newmarch? That’s nothing compared with what I have in store for you if you don’t talk.”
“New York,” said Joker slowly. “I heard Bailey was in New York.”
“Heard?” she repeated. “How did you hear that?”
“Pete Manyon,” replied Joker.
“Ah, yes,” said Hennessy, removing her hand. She picked up something from the workbench and held it in front of his face. It was his wallet. “Damien O’Brien,” she said. “Good Irish name, that, Cramer.” She took out the UK driving licence. “Looks genuine,” she said, and dropped it on the floor. She held out the Visa card. “This is definitely the real thing,” she said, throwing it down. “In fact, all your paperwork seems first class, Cramer. I suppose that makes it an official operation, right?”
“Yeah,” he said. He closed his eyes. Hennessy threw the wallet at his face.
“So how come you look like shit, Cramer? How come the SAS sends a wreck like you after Bailey?”
Joker said nothing, because it wasn’t a question he could answer. Hennessy went back to the workbench and picked up the pruning shears. Joker’s hands clenched as he recalled what she’d done to Newmarch’s fingers. His wrists rubbed against the chain and he felt blood run down his arms.
“It doesn’t make sense, Cramer. There are plenty of Sass-men they could have sent, guys like Pete Manyon. Young, fit, smart. Why would they send you?”
Joker swallowed and felt the metallic taste of blood at the back of his throat. He tried to talk but no words came. He swallowed again. “Water,” he managed to croak.
Hennessy smiled. “You want water?” she said. She picked up the beaker and held it to his lips. He felt the liquid against his cracked and bleeding lips and he swallowed greedily, realising too late that it was salty. He coughed and choked and spat it out, his throat on fire.
Hennessy laughed and dropped the tumbler back into the bucket. “Let me give you the questions first,” she said. “I want to know what you were told Bailey was doing here. And I want to know why they sent you.” She held up the pruning shears. Joker moaned and raised his head, the movement sending stabs of pain through his neck and shoulders, and focused on his wrists. The chains had rubbed deep into the flesh and there was fresh wet blood on
