Adrian McKinty - The Dead Yard

My grin widens.

“Fuck me, Michael, you are fucking brave. Have to wipe that smile off your face… Now, we’ll try again. What’s your full name?”

But I shake my head.

He waits.

The silence annoys him. Gets his goat. Makes him think that I’m smarter than he is.

He rubs his chin.

There are to be no imprecisions of belief permitted here and Touched must say something to cover the hesitancy and convince himself.

“No, Michael, you can’t speak, because I have to teach you a whole new language,” he says at last.

He gets up, and I look at the cigarette, flinch.

He spits. Shakes his head.

“So you think I’m here to burn ye with me fags, do you? Well, don’t have any worries on that score. I just want to talk.See, we want this over with just as much as you. You’re boring me. We just want to know what you’ve told your bosses in London and Washington. What you’ve told them about us.”

I wink at him.

Touched leans on the back of the chair.

“You’ve seen what I’m capable of, haven’t you?”

I nod my head.

His voice is soft again, almost loving.

“You know that that was just the beginning. Right? She was the appetizer. You will be my project, my life’s work. That I assure you. They’ll talk about you for years to come. You’ll be the horror story they tell in Langley to the rookies. ‘The worst I ever heard was about this body we found in Maine.’ And I’ll make sure they find you and they’ll know it’s you. You won’t even look human when I’m done, but I’ll carve a note in your skin explaining who you are and what you did.”

My smile fades, but somehow I force it back onto my lips.

“How’s your arms, Michael? Are they comfortable? Are your lungs starting to hurt? Well, maybe everything else hurts so much you haven’t noticed. But you will. Eventually we’ll tie you higher on the crossbeams, so your feet are off the floor. Later on tonight. When I’ve gouged out your eyes and castrated you. Not now. Later. You see, Michael, I’m patient. I’ve got all the time in the world. Think about it. You just think about that.”

He pats me on the cheek, yawns, and walks over to Peter.

“And how are you, young fella my lad? How are you doing? Are you glad to have company? Let me take that out of your mouth… There. That’s better. The girls are bringing you supper. But no talking now. Understand? If you say one word to them I’ll cut out your English tongue. Nod your head if you get me.”

Peter nods.

“Good. You take care now, you too, Michael. I’ll be seeing you.”

Touched opens the smokehouse door. Pauses. The sun has set, but I notice that up at the house there’s a person walking this way. Two people. Is she one of them? A hundred thousand synapses have been destroyed by blows to the head. And it’s dark. Seeing is difficult. But yeah, that’s her. Holding something, touching her fingers to her lips. Something glinting. A crucifix around her neck. Fine time to find religion. She’s nervous. Her chest breathing hard, almost hyperventilating in that big brown sweater.

Touched closes the door. But I’ve already seen them. Seen her. Walking over with food for Peter.

And I want to tell her. And I’ll tell her.

Kit. The world is going to end tonight. No matter what happens.

Don’t look for it in the skies.

And that cross won’t protect you.

It’s lying on the floor.

If I can get it.

I will get it.

Kit, honey, you should read The Brendan Voyage as a manual on perseverance in the face of the apocalypse. Aye. The world will end tonight, for one of us at least. Turn the handle. Turn the-

The door opens for the third time and the third character in the story enters. There are snowflakes on her sweater and hair. September snow. What a delightful rarity. Be another lovely Frost poem, but for the torture and the hostages in the bloody woodshed.

Sonia behind Kit, carrying a tray. They leave the door open and the cold air is a welcome balm. They come in and Kit goes to pull the light on but sees it’s already lit and hesitates. Neither of them gazes at my side of the smokehouse.

“Hello, girls, remember me?” I say, lisping from a cracked jaw.

She doesn’t want to, but then her head turns. She looks and it all collapses. Her face, the white of her hand, and it appears for a moment as if she might swoon. She steadies herself. I know your mantra. This is his just desserts. He betrayed all of us.

Sonia pours water from a bottle into Peter’s mouth and feeds him from the plate.

“Sonia, I’m so thirsty, please,” I say.

Her hand shakes but she ignores me, stealing only a quick glance back. Sonia is not the one to work on. She’s been sucked into all of this and has accepted the journey down to hell. No doubt Gerry has comforted her with a line from the bloody Aeneid. I catch her in another wee look and she stares through me, blinking stupidly.

And no, I’m wrong. She’s not going along with it, she’s just overmedicated. Painkillers, booze. Numb.

In any case, she ain’t the one.

Kit comes over.

“Hello, Kit.”

“Hello,” she says in two-point lowercase. Mouse speak.

Barely a whisper.

“You did what you had to do, Kit. I don’t blame you,” I tell her.

“I did what I had to, yes,” she says, as lifelike as Deep Blue.

She rubs at her eyes, trying to erase the sight of so much blood. She pulls down the sleeve of the massive sweater. It’s too big for her, it’s one of her dad’s, and she looks lost in it.

Like an orphan child.

She steps back.

“You weren’t expecting snow, were you?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“Sean, I, I…” she tries to explain.

“I know. Don’t worry about it, Kit. You made your decision, and by this time tomorrow both Peter and I will be dead, murdered, and it’ll all be over. You can think about it then.”

On the other side of the room, Peter chokes on his food, but he’s careful not to respond.

“I have to go,” she says and walks to the door.

Hesitates.

And stands there in silhouette, the door creaking as she pushes it with feigned indifference and then the hint of a skitter smile, trying to be brave and hard, like Ming the Merciless. Snow falling on one arm outside and not on the one inside, teasing me with the scent of the external world.

This is much more effective and such sweet torture.

You, in indecision. Torn between the cause and the family and me. Standing there, emphasizing the alignments of power in the room and the fact that you have the control and are exercising it to close out the cool air and the snowflakes and the pale and sulfurous external light.

Sonia finishes feeding Peter.

She joins Kit at the door.

“We should go,” Sonia says.

And if I could speak and think, what would I say to her? How would I convince her?

Oh, Kit, I lied, but your dad’s the bigger liar. Your whole fucking culture is built on warped, pisshead sentimentalism. There were no old glories, just ugly massacres and men murdered on their doorsteps, or kids blown up in fish-and-chip shops, or taxi drivers gunned down behind a warehouse in the stinking docks.

You’re going to kill me, and then what are you going to do? Wipe out every Protestant in Ireland until it’s ethnically pure?Then the Jews, Chinese, blacks. It’s so silly. It’s so twentieth century. We’re a couple of years from a new millennium. Don’t you see that, Kit? I’m the future. You’re the past.

Someone clears his throat and a man appears behind her in the doorjamb. It’s too late to say anything now.

“What’s keeping you two? You didn’t give bloody Benedict any, did you?” he asks.