Oh yeah, I remembered.
I rubbed away at days of stubble on my grease-coated skin. My eyes were gummed up and my mouth tasted stale and acidic.
I turned my head towards a steel door, painted to look like wood panelling. The stench of diesel was overpowering.
I dragged myself to my feet and stumbled to the not-so-stainless-steel sink. My knees buckled and I had to grip the rim to stop myself collapsing.
I pushed down on the tap. Water dribbled out. I bent down and sucked in a mouthful.
I staggered to the door.
The handle wouldn't budge. I'd known it wouldn't, but I had to try anyway.
I went back to the sink. I unbuttoned my jeans, tucked in the sweatshirt, pulled up my socks. If I could sort myself physically, maybe I could sort myself mentally.
I was definitely on a boat, and it was moving. On its way to Ireland? Maybe she'd bought the idea of me appearing on TV.
I stooped and sucked again at the trickle of water.
The image of Lynn sprawled across Layla's steps forced its way into my mind. His dad would have been proud of him, giving up his life for something that he believed in. I felt admiration and anger, in equal measure. Nobody was ever going to know what he'd done, and this time next year nobody was even going to care. Nobody apart from me. If I got out of this shit alive.
The door rattled.
Somebody was working the handle.
I took the couple of paces back to the bunk and lay down. What else could I do?
The door swung open. Box-cutter filled my field of view, but he wasn't alone. More than one pair of hands reached down and yanked me off the bunk and onto the floor.
I tensed every muscle that would still pay attention and curled into a ball. I took a hard kick in the back, and then my world became a frenzy of black leather. All I could do was stay foetal and take it. The drugs still had a hold. I'd be too slow to escape or retaliate. I'd have to bide my time.
Each time a boot connected, my whole body convulsed. The drugs were an advantage. I felt I had a barrier against the worst of the pain, at least for now. Tomorrow I'd be suffering. But at least I now knew that tomorrow
The flurry of kicks and punches seemed indiscriminate, but none of them were landing on my face.
113
Lemony perfume did momentary battle with the diesel fumes and the attack stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
The throbbing of the engines increased. She had left the door open.
I opened one eye. A line of bright white det cord ran down the middle of the knackered red lino out in the corridor.
She hunkered down alongside me. Luxuriant brown hair brushed fleetingly across my cheek.
'Who betrayed us, Nick? Who gave up the Bahiti and my father?'
I kept looking down, waiting for a slap, a punch, a kick, but nothing came. She sounded very calm, very collected, but I could feel the anger burning in her eyes.
'You're dead anyway, Nick. It's not as if you're helping yourself. The woman and that wee little girl, and those two friends of yours from Dublin – they're the ones you can save.'
I stayed clenched, ready to accept the punishment.
I gave it a few more seconds.
'I'm giving you fuck all until I'm sure they're safe.'
Her breath whistled as she stood up. 'You're giving me precisely what I want you to give me, or your friends will die in the most painful ways even you can imagine.'
She stepped back into the corridor.
Box-cutter grabbed my right arm and forced it up. Not even bothering to roll up my sleeve, he jabbed an autojet into the bicep.
My world went into slow motion again. Even his shouting against my ear was muffled and blurred.
I felt myself drift away as my central nervous system closed down and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. The urge to sleep was just too strong.
Fuck it, I needed the rest anyway.
Fifteen seconds and I was gone.
