He couldn’t see a way out. His wrists were handcuffed to the arms of the chair. His ankles taped to the legs. He was going nowhere. Soon he would taste the blade. He would endure torture, then die. Black was not scared. He was resigned. He might see his wife and daughter again, in another place. And if he didn’t, then at least his guilt would end. He would meet oblivion with a smile.
Black looked up. To his astonishment, a girl stood in the doorway. Maybe seven years old. She stared at Black, wide-eyed.
Scared.
Black saw a glimmer of a chance.
“What’s your name?”
She didn’t respond. She stared, her face blank.
“My name is Adam. Can you help me?”
She took one tentative step forward.
“Please,” he said. “These men have trapped me. Like you. Help me. I can get us away from this place.”
Another step forward. Black wondered how he must look; cuffed to a chair, a raw burn mark running down the length of his face. A ghoulish figure.
She didn’t respond.
“There are keys hanging on the wall.” He gesticulated by nodding over to where the other man had left a set of keys on a hook. Probably another vain hope. He had no idea the right key was there. But he had to try. “If you climb up onto the desk, you could get them, and see if you can unlock these handcuffs.”
Another step forward.
“Please,” he urged.
A response. An almost imperceptible nod. But Black saw it. He dared to hope.
She scrambled up onto the desktop, knocking over a plastic tray containing pens, paper-clips, other stuff. It fell with a clatter. Black held his breath. She reached up, retrieved the keys, lowered herself, approached Black.
“Let me see.”
She spread them out between her hands. There!
“Try the little key,” he said.
Suddenly a noise, from outside. The sound of a lock. A door opening, closing. A man’s voice. Reith.
“Hurry,” breathed Black.
She placed the key in the chamber of one handcuff, turned. The two metal arms clicked and pulled open. She concentrated on the other one. Seconds ticked by. His voice was near. The second sprung open.
The voice only seconds away.
“Hide!” he whispered. “The back room. Go!”
She understood. She scampered away, behind him. He heard her close the door, just as two men appeared. One was Reith. He was carrying a brown paper bag. The other, a guard – a holster strapped under his arm, and in the holster, a pistol. Looked like a Beretta.
“You can go, thank you,” said Reith. The man nodded, giving Black a darting look, and left. Black had positioned his wrists back on the arms of the chair. At first glance, it appeared he was still cuffed. His ankles were still taped.
“Is that a present for me?” asked Black.
Reith sat on the desk chair, the brown bag on his lap, and wheeled the chair closer. Not close enough.
“More a statement,” replied Reith.
“Sounds intriguing.”
“Glorious, actually.”
He opened the bag, and pulled out a full face mask, made of delicate white porcelain.
“When circumstances dictate, I wear this. This is my Death Doll mask.”
He put it on. The image confronting Black was something from a nightmare. Reith continued, speaking through a space for his mouth, just large enough for Black to see his lips move as he spoke, the pink movement of his tongue.
“I only wear this when the pleasure evolves into pain. When the killing urge comes on. My subject sees this and knows there’s no turning back. I become death, Mr Black.”
He pushed away, to the knife, glowing on the gas flame. He was wearing gloves. He picked up the knife, and returned to Black.
“If you recall, I’m going to start by peeling your skin.”
He thrust his arm forward, grabbing Black by the hair.
A little closer.
Reith leaned in. “Don’t struggle, or the pain just gets worse.” He raised the knife, angling Black’s face one way, drew the blade close to his cheek. Even through the mask, Black could smell Reith’s breath. It was all he needed.
Black suddenly lifted his hand, caught Reith’s wrist. The white mask remained impassive. Underneath, Reith’s face was doubtless a picture of profound astonishment. Reith gave a small startled scream. Black brought his other arm up and round Reith’s neck, bringing him into his chest, catching him in a headlock.
Reith collapsed forward, onto his knees, the chair skittering backwards.
“You got it all wrong,” hissed Black. “It’s me who is death. But I don’t become it. I am it.”
He forced Reith’s hand downwards, the blade edging closer to Reith’s neck, below his ear. Reith tried to resist, push back, but his angle was all wrong, and Black was stronger. The tip scraped his neck.
Reith’s voice was a husky rasp. “Please…”
“For the children, you fucking mad bastard.”
Black pushed. The blade entered, red hot, a fraction behind the jawline, sliding in, through flesh, blood, through his neck. Skin sizzled. He pushed, until the blade was in, hilt deep. Reith spluttered, emitted a gargled croak, all the while the Death Doll mask stared, reflecting neither pain nor fear. Black felt Reith shudder, his body sagged. He flopped onto the tiles.
Black stretched down, pulled out the knife, used it to cut the tape round his ankles.
He went to the back of the room, opened the door. It was a bathroom. The girl was cowering in a corner. He held out his hand.
“Come with me.”
They left,
