Stuart MacBride - Birthdays for the dead

That d change.

Say cheese. I raised the camera, let the autofocus whirr, then pressed the button. The flash turned the wine cellar monochrome for a moment, then everything faded back into gloom.

Steven Wallace blinked at me, breath hissing through his nose, tears streaming down his cheeks, mumbling words behind the duct-tape gag.

The cellar was a good size probably bigger than the whole ground floor of my ruined house lined with wooden shelves, piled high with wine.

Where is she, Steve?

He wriggled, but the cable-ties didn t budge holding him tight to the wooden dining chair, rumpling his silk pyjamas. The bruise on his cheek was beginning to darken.

I turned, ran my hands across the rack of bottles. It s here, isn t it? Your secret torture chamber? Hidden away I hauled at the shelving and bottles crashed to the flagstone floor, red white and ros shattering, soaking Steve s slippers.

A muffled shriek. Then nervous giggling.

Oh, you think this is funny, do you?

He shook his head.

Where is she?

More mumbling.

I yanked another set of shelves off the wall. Still no sign of a hidden door.

WHERE IS SHE?

He closed his eyes and trembled. I slapped him.

Look at me, you little shite!

He turned his head away, so I slapped him again.

LOOK AT ME!

He did what he was told. Mmmmmmphnph

You see what I m wearing, Steve? The mask, the goggles, the outfit? They re not so you won t recognize me: they re so I don t leave any forensic evidence behind when I carve you into little fucking bits.

I pulled a birthday card from my pocket Rebecca, the number five scratched into the top-left corner and held it under Steven Wallace s nose. Let him drink it in. Look familiar? Helpless, tied to a chair in a basement, gagged, terrified?

I cleared a shelf of Rioja with a sweep of one hand, then reached into the B amp;Q carrier-bag.

You re already dead, Steve. I pulled a pair of pliers out and placed them on the shelf, then a claw-hammer, braddle, Stanley knife, heavy-duty scissors, and a little blowtorch.

Tell me where she is and I ll make it relatively quick.

Mmmmph MMMPHNPH!

I smiled at him. What, you think I m going to use these to make you talk? The pliers felt nice and solid in my hand I snapped the jaws half an inch from his left eye.

Where is she?

Mmmmmmph! Mnnnphnmmph!

WHERE IS SHE? A shelf full of burgundy exploded on the flagstones.

MMMNNNPH! The sharp tang of fresh urine joined the heady tannin stench of red wine.

She s near, isn t she? When you had this place renovated, you got them to put in a secret room, didn t you? Somewhere you could take people s daughters. Where is she?

Mmmnphnnnmmmnnn

I grabbed a corner of the duct tape and pulled.

Aaaaaargh God I don t I don t know. I don t, I swear.

I put the pliers back on the shelf. Wrong answer.

HELP ME! SOMEONE! PLEASE DEAR GOD HELP ME! HELP

I slammed my elbow into the murdering bastard s face, catching him above the left eye. A nice solid smack. His head snapped back, thumping into the wine rack behind him, making the bottles clatter against each other. Got to hand it to Andy Inglis: when it came to beating the shit out of people, he knew his stuff.

Where is she?

Steven Wallace blinked a couple of times, I grabbed his hair and forced the bastard s head back, staring into his eyes. Dilated pupils.

I didn t do it I don t know anything

What are you on: amphetamines, ecstasy, cocaine? Smoke a few joints before bedtime? The skin above his eye was already starting to swell up. Nah, it s coke, isn t it? Nothing else is showbiz enough for a prick like you.

I dragged him and his chair into the middle of the room. Put a foot on his chest and pushed. The chair tipped over, crashed to the floor amongst the broken bottles, pinning his arms underneath him.

A grunt.

Don t go anywhere.

I was back two minutes later with a couple of hand towels.

Only took three kicks to get the cellar door off its hinges. I carried it over to one of the wine racks and propped the top end up on the second shelf from the bottom, then hauled Wallace and his chair on top of the door still flat on his back, feet up, head down.

Where is she?

You can t do this to me, I know people!

Pliers and blowtorches are for amateurs, Steve. The field of torture has come on leaps and bounds since the Spanish Inquisition.

I pulled one of the bottles from the rack. An 84 Bordeaux. No idea if it was any good or not. Didn t really matter. I smashed the neck against the wall: red splashed across the bare stone.

Where is she?

They re gonna find you and they re gonna pay you a visit.

Grow up.

Gonna cut your cock off and make you eat it!

You ve got nice towels in that spare bathroom. Very soft and fluffy. Very absorbent. I draped one over his mouth, then upended the wine into the towel, saturating it. Then another bottle. I put my foot on his forehead, pressing down hard enough to stop him moving his head. Poured more Bordeaux over his mouth and up his nose, filling his sinuses. He shuddered in the chair, knees and shoulders jerking, making muffled screams through the sodden fabric.

I pulled the towel off his face. He spluttered and retched.

Dirty murdering little fuck.

Where is she?

Gahhh Jesus SOMEBODY HELP ME! Eyes blinking, red wine running down his face and onto the tilted door. HELP ME!

Pliers were old hat, but waterboarding was a different matter. Thank you ACC Drummond for the suggestion.

Basement wine cellar, remember? No one can hear you. But that s why you had it built, isn t it?

I flipped the wet towel back over his mouth, picked a 96 pinot noir, and stood on his forehead again. Where is she?

Mmmmphmmnnnnphpnnnn!

Glug, glug, glug. I emptied the contents over his face.

More struggling, more screaming.

Someone once told me that the CIA s best covert operatives the ones specially trained to resist torture can put up with this for about fourteen seconds. The trachea, larynx, sinuses, and throat all fill up with liquid and the body goes apeshit. The brain s not in control any more. Panic, gag reflex, terror. Of course the lungs are above the high-tide mark, but the body doesn t care. Help me, I m drowning, I m dying.

I dropped the empty bottle.

Wallace s eyes were wide open, tinged with pink and wet with red wine. His whole body shook as if he was having a fit, the wet towel sagging into his open mouth as he gasped for air that wasn t there.

Bet no one in Guantanamo Bay got waterboarded with a 96 Pinot Noir.

I flipped the towel away.

He kept shaking, jerking against his restraints. I tipped the chair over onto its side.

Red wine gushed out of him, a deep sucking breath, then a spray of vomit onto the broken glass. I let him heave until there was nothing left but bile.

You having fun yet, Sensational Steve? Cause you ve got what two, three thousand bottles down here? We can do this all night.

I don t I don t know where she is. I swear! If I did, I d tell you! I don t know: I never touched her Please He closed his eyes, banged his head against the wet door. Please, I didn t touch her

Don t believe you.

I didn t touch her, I didn t!

Prove it: where were you Friday night?

Dundee. I was in Dundee I was in Dundee doing a leukaemia thing

I shoved him over onto his back again and pulled another bottle from the shelves. How does a Lengs amp; Cooter reserve shiraz sound to you 2001 s a good vintage to drown in, isn t it? The glass neck shattered against the wall and Wallace screamed.

God, please I was with my boyfriend! I was with my boyfriend! I was in Dundee with my boyfriend Wallace screwed his eyes tight shut. He s married. I didn t touch your daughter, I swear!