meth and crack cocaine, and the kind of people you had to deal with in that world. People like this. It could only have to do with Jaff, who wasn’t anywhere near as fussy about what he took, or what he sold to make a living.
“Come in, gentlemen,” he said. “Make yourselves at home.”
They didn’t appear to have a sense of humor. They pushed him into the living room and sized the place up. The smaller one checked out the rest of the house to see if anyone else was there, while the big bald one sat silently eyeing the modern art on the walls: prints by Dali, Hockney, Magritte, Rothko. The smaller one returned and, satisfied that they were quite alone with their quarry, they first closed the heavy curtains and turned on the standard lamp, then they got down to business.
“First,” said the big bald man, “will you turn that fucking racket off? It makes me feel like I need a shit.”
Confused, Victor turned off the CD player. “I like it,” he said. “It’s really quite soothing if you let-”
“I’d also ask you to turn those bloody paintings around if you could,” the man went on, ignoring him. “They have about the same effect on my bowels. But we don’t have time to mess about. Ciaran.”
The ginger-haired man came forward, gestured for Victor to sit on one of the hard-backed chairs from the dining table and proceeded to use heavy gray duct tape to fasten his legs securely to it and his arms around his back. To finish off, he ran the tape around Victor’s upper body and fastened him tightly to the chair back.
Victor sat passive and silent through all this. He didn’t want them to think he was going to cause trouble. There was a chance that this was all a dream, and he could close his eyes and make it go away. He tried, but it didn’t. They hadn’t taped his mouth shut, so he assumed they wanted to ask him questions, which was a good sign. The paranoia was building, though, getting its hooks into him, but as long as he could talk, there was hope. Gift of the gab, that’s what everyone said about Victor. He could charm the birds out of the trees. This need not come to a bad end.
“Right,” said the bald one, once Victor was trussed up to the other’s satisfaction. “You may not know this, but one thing I’ve learned over the years is that the secret of fear isn’t the inflicting of pain. Not at all. It’s to do with the anticipation of pain. So what we’re going to do is this.” He took an object from the small grip he had put down on the sofa beside him and set it on the low glass coffee table. “Know what this is?”
“An egg timer?”
“More properly known as an hourglass or a sand clock. See how it’s shaped? That’s why they sometimes talk about women having hourglass figures. Did you know that?”
Victor did, but he wasn’t keen to appear too clever in front of these men. He had dealt with similar types before and found that at the first sign of intellectual superiority they became more resentful and, therefore, more aggressive. A public school education followed by an Oxbridge degree was definitely not an advantage in these circumstances. “No,” he said. “I didn’t. I thought it was an egg timer.”
“You turn it over, and the sand falls through the tiny hole from one glass bulb to the other. Very clever, really. Sometimes I could watch it for hours. Of course, it doesn’t take hours. It doesn’t even take anywhere near an hour, so why they call it an hourglass I don’t fucking know, except it looks like a woman’s figure, and they talk about hourglass figures, don’t they? Now, these you might find even more interesting. Ciaran.”
The other man took a large folded pouch from the same grip, set it on the table next to the hourglass and unfurled it.
“This is Ciaran’s collection of surgical instruments,” the man went on. “Not that he’s a surgeon or anything. Didn’t have the Latin, did you, Ciaran?”
“That’s a judge,” said Victor.
“What?” the bald man asked, fixing Victor with a blank stare.
“He could have been a judge, but he didn’t have the Latin.” Victor regretted the words immediately they were out. They smacked of superiority. What the hell did he think he was doing, correcting this yahoo’s quotation?
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Sorry. The sketch. It’s Peter Cook and Dudley Moore.”
The two men looked at each other and shook their heads. “Whatever,” the bald one said. “Anyway, like I said before I was so rudely interrupted, our Ciaran’s no surgeon. Bit of an amateur, really. But he likes the tools, and he likes to dabble. The collection’s a bit of a ragbag, no rhyme nor reason to it, except Ciaran’s personal tastes.” The bald man picked up the sharp gleaming instruments one by one. “Now, I don’t know what these all are, but I do know that some of them are used in dermatology. Know what that is? A clever boy like you should do, university education, Latin and all. No? It means they’re sharp enough to peel an eyeball. Gives a whole new meaning to keeping your eyes skinned, doesn’t it? Others are meant for making deeper cuts through layers of fat or muscle. And then there are things that keep the edges of the wounds open or hold back the underlying organs and tissue while the doctors do their business and put their hands inside, or rip things out.” He held up a hooked instrument. “Retractors of various sizes and designs. Clamps, too, to slow down the bleeding. And most of these other blades are so sharp that they probably don’t hurt very much at first, like when you cut yourself shaving, you don’t really feel it. But eventually the pain comes. Delayed reaction. The blood’s already there, of course. All over the place by then, I should imagine.”
As the bald man talked, Victor felt his spirits sinking and his heart rate rising. He knew the kind of damage and pain these instruments could inflict. Even the dental probe terrified him. His mouth was dry and his skin clammy. “Why are you doing this?” he croaked. “What do you want? I haven’t done anything. You don’t have to do this.”
Ciaran busied himself with the instruments, lovingly and carefully polishing each one with a white cloth.
The bald man looked on, smiling. “What a perfectionist. I tell him not to bother, they’ll only get bloody again, but every time, without fail, he has to polish his instruments. Maybe he’s just an optimist? Maybe he thinks he won’t have to use them this time?”
“He doesn’t,” said Victor, licking his lips. “He doesn’t have to use them. What do you want? I’ll tell you. If it’s money, take it.”
“We don’t want your money, and I’m sure you’ll tell us plenty,” said the bald one. “But I’m also sure you can understand that we have to be certain you’re telling us what we need to hear, not just what we want to hear. There’s a subtle difference.”
“I’ll tell the truth.”
The man laughed. “Hear that, Ciaran? He’ll tell the truth. That’s a good one. Where have you heard that one before?”
“What do you mean?” Victor’s mind was clear enough now for him to worry because the bald man had no hesitation about calling Ciaran by name, if that was his real name. And that couldn’t be good, could it? “I won’t talk. I won’t tell anyone,” he added, for good measure.
“No, that you won’t,” said the bald man. “See those tongs and that blade there? Very good for loose tongues, those are.”
Victor swallowed. His tongue felt too big for his mouth.
The bald man clapped his hands. “But that’s all further down the road. After we’ve reached what I call the point of no return. First off, let’s just have a go, shall we? See how we start off. Starter for ten, eh? An educated lad like you ought to know University Challenge. Let’s see how far we can get without resorting to any serious unpleasantness.”
“That’s fine with me,” said Victor.
“Good. The way it works is like this.” The man turned the hourglass until the sand started slowly sifting through the tiny hole into the other glass bowl. “I’m not sure exactly how long this takes,” he said. “To be honest, I’ve never actually timed it. But while the sand is still running, Ciaran here will hold back with his instruments. That’s the amount of time you’ve got to give me the answers I need. Understand?”
“Yes. Yes. Please. Go on. Ask me anything. Hurry.” Victor glanced at the sand. It was moving far faster than the laws of physics allowed, he was certain, rushing through at an alarming rate.
“Calm down, Victor. There’s no hurry. Plenty of time.”
“Please. Ask me what you want to know. Start now.”
“Need to know.”
“All right. Need.” Victor wanted to yell, “Just bloody get on with it!” as he eyed first the cascading sand, then the shiny curved retractor that Ciaran was polishing. He felt his bowels loosening. He said nothing.
“We’ll start with questions we think we know the answers to already. That way we’ll know if you’re lying. A kind of litmus test. You’re a friend of Jaff McCready’s, yes or no?”
