Adrian McKinty - The Dead Yard

“No,” Sonia says meekly.

It’s Jackie, and such is the change in the dynamic of the group that he, who is half Sonia’s age, has her cowed, scared.

“Out of there, the pair of you,” he orders, and they go scurrying away up to the cabin. Jackie makes sure they’re long gone, shakes the snow off his jacket, and walks in carrying something. A tree branch or a billy club or a-

He runs at me and thumps it down on the top of my head.

“That’s your supper, mate,” he says and, chuckling to himself, pulls the rope to the bulb, extinguishes the only light, and slams the door.

I fought the blackout. If I passed out now I could die during the night, so I had to stay awake, conscious, sentient.

The pain was my great ally. They’d done me a favor, break- ing my ribs and kicking my head in and punching me.

I heard the footsteps march away from the smokehouse and back to the main cabin. Where was it? That bottle, that fucking Coke bottle. The light was failing and there wasn’t going to be much time left to look.

I blinked the blood out of my eyes and strained on the ropes.

There was going to be no Houdini on those cords. They’d tied me with a hangman’s knot so that as I pulled it got tighter. The only way I was getting out of these bonds was if I could somehow cut them.

I stretched my body as far as it would go. Pointed the toes of my right foot. I leaned and strained with every muscle left.

The Coke bottle was a few inches away. Wouldn’t matter if it was a few miles. I tried to reach it but it was impossible.

Come on, you son of a bitch.

I pulled and twisted. My lungs feeling as if I’d inhaled hot pitch.

I stopped the stretch and took a breath.

Lay back on the wall, tried to rest my ass on a raised knot of wood. Anything would be better than no support at all.

I sucked in the air.

A voice. English.

“Hello?” Peter said.

Sonia had forgotten to replace his gag.

“Hello,” I replied once I had recovered.

“I’ve been listening to you all afternoon,” he said in an Essex-boy London accent.

“Yeah?”

“I think they’re gone for the day now,” he said hopefully.

“Aye.”

“I want to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

“I’m afraid,” he said simply.

“Don’t be. We’re going to be ok,” I told him.

“They’re going to kill us, aren’t they? You’re an FBI agent and I’m a British general’s son. They’re going to kill both of us.”

“They’re not going to kill us.”

“They fucking are, oh my God, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die,” he said and cried quietly for a minute or two. I let him get it out and then I told him.

“Peter, if you’re going to talk to me you gotta keep your voice down. They’ll be back tonight to check on us periodically. So keep it down, pal.”

“I don’t want to die,” he said, quieter now, but still sobbing.

“Listen to me, sonny. Every single word I say costs me a tremendous effort so I’m not going to repeat anything. We’re going to be all right. I need you to keep it together. If I can find a way out of here, you’re coming too. Whatever happens, I’m going to need you to be on the ball. If you’re girning like a wean and paralyzed by fear and I have to worry about you as well as them, we’re both as dead as a ham sandwich. Understood?”

He thought for a few seconds. Took a deep breath.

“I understand.”

“Ok, good. That’s what I like to hear. It’s going to be ok, but you’re going to have to work with me.”

He shuffled a little against the pole. The way they’d tied him, he could stand or sit. Now he was sitting. The blindfold was a bandage they had wrapped round his head and covered in duct tape.

“What do you need me to do?” he asked, a wail creeping back into his voice again.

“I need you to calm down and trust me. I need you to compose yourself. It’s going to be ok, but, Jesus, you’ve got to trust me. Ok?”

“Ok,” he said softly.

“What are you tied to that thing by?”

“A chain.”

“Can you get out of it?”

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“Ok, well, I want you to try. It looks like you’re chained to a big wooden beam, so if nothing else the chain should be able to saw through the wood. Find a rough spot on the metal and start sawing. I’ll tell you if anyone comes in.”

“Ok,” Peter said.

And I’ll do my work.

I leaned as far to the right as possible, but even my outstretched little toe could still not touch the goddamn bottle.

“What’s your name?” Peter asked.

“Michael Forsythe,” I told him. “No more talking. We’ve work to do.”

I tried again. If it was another six inches to the right, I’d have no chance. But as it was, it was just close enough to exercise my frustrations. They’d done the same to that Greek guy, years ago. Tantalus. Poor fuck.

“They’re going to kill us, Michael, aren’t they? Tell me the truth,” Peter said.

“The truth is, Peter, we have a pretty fair chance of getting out of this. I left a note for the peelers on your boat, telling them where we were taking you. I didn’t know the exact location but, believe me, they’re coming. They’ll be here. Maybe not soon enough for me, but the deadline on you doesn’t expire until tomorrow, so if you keep calm and your fingers crossed, you might make it out of here.”

“Are you saying that to make me feel better?”

“No, I’m not. Now shut up for a minute.”

He was quiet and I was quiet and he began sawing into the wooden beam with a smooth iron chain. He could do it if he had a couple of years, but it was better to keep him busy.

I spent the next hour trying in vain to touch the bottle with my foot.

But it was not possible. I’d need an atypical Maine earthquake or the assistance of a friendly Disney animal if I was ever going to reach it.

Nah, the only way would be to ask Kit if she could fill it with water for me if she came in next time without Sonia. She just might to do it out of compassion. Sonia wouldn’t let her do it. But Kit might.

There was a noise outside.

A chain saw being jacked into life.

The door opened.

Touched was standing outside the smokehouse, obviously drunk, holding the saw, the chain whirring, smoke pouring out of the exhaust, a stink of sawdust and petrol.

I wasn’t afraid.

If this was it, well, I’d given it a damn good shot.

He was grinning, stumbling, whirling the saw about his head.

“Here we go, Mikey boy,” he said, laughing.

There was someone with him. Two people. Jackie and Gerry. They pulled the light, closed the door, and then there was an argument.

“What do you think you’re playing at? Need to go lie down in the snow for ten minutes, this is fucking serious,” Gerry was saying.

Touched said something incoherent.

The chain saw got turned off.

“Fucking show you both a thing or two,” Touched said.

Wiser heads had prevailed.

“My way,” Gerry said.

Touched muttered something.

Gerry opened the door.

Touched behind him, Jackie too. They’d all been drinking.

“Go ahead,” Gerry said. Touched and Jackie clenched their fists, rushed me.

And it all began again.

Tenses change. The room implodes. Touched kicks me in the stomach and punches my limp head. My skull bangs against the log wall.

Punches and kicks. A yell and a swinging away of noise and light. Blood streaming onto my chin, a terrible noise that turns out to be me screaming.

Touched, Jackie standing back, breathing hard from the effort.

“Well, that’s a sweet hello,” I manage.