Gordon Ferris - Truth Dare kill

Not now, please not now.

“On your feet, McRae!” Wilson had kicked back his chair and was standing above me, his fists clenched.

I cowered in my corner waiting for the jackboots to come in, the metal rods to strike. “I’m fine here, Inspector. I know my rights. You can’t do this. All I’ve done is hang around my old office and look at my own file. I didn’t even break in.”

“No? Then what’s all that then?” He pointed at the sorry pile of tools on the floor.

I had the pillow in front of me. A pathetic shield. He reached out and grabbed my left arm and yanked me up. He tore the pillow from my grip and tossed it behind me. I stood rigid, knowing what was coming and trying to brazen it out. I held his malignant eyes and kept my arms by my side so that he’d have to hit a defenceless man.

His big right hook hit me in the guts and I went down on the bed in wheezing agony. I couldn’t call out. He pulled me up again. I was retching and coughing, fighting for air. This time I held my hands in front of my face, my elbows tucked in. They didn’t help much. He was going for the body mainly. Not wanting to leave too many marks. A real pro. I tried to protect my kidneys and stomach.

His fists broke through or smashed numbingly on my arms.

I felt a rib go and in that moment, felt something else snap. I found my lungs and began a scream that was anger, pain, hate all rolled into one. It made him draw back. Wilson was the school bully that I’d taken enough from. I hit him with my right and he was so surprised that he fell back. I flung myself at him.

My arms were flailing, striking at his head and big chest, pummelling away so that he stumbled back against the door.

I could see blood from his mouth. Then a great roar erupted from him and he let loose. I stood no chance. I went down and he began kicking me. I tried to shield my face. I rolled into a ball. The jackboots smashed into me, into my head, my back my legs, my balls. I was screaming and screaming. Like before… like before…

I heard the door clang and voices a long way off. There was a lot of shouting. I couldn’t hear. My ears were filled with blood…

“Thank Christ, he’s moving. I thought the big prick had killed him.”

“He will one day. He’s a bloody animal. He’s gone too bleeding far this time.”

“It wasn’t all one way. Did you see the corker he got?”

I felt hands lifting me, hauling me on to the bed. I hurt everywhere. And then I felt the familiar sickness rising in me, the pain in my head splitting it wide open, and blessed oblivion sweeping down on me…

“Are you awake?” It was a woman’s voice. Irish. I wasn’t sure it was aimed at me. And if it was, I wasn’t sure if I was awake or not. I shifted and found pain shooting through my ribs and head. The rest of me seemed to be in spasm as well.

Then I felt the nausea well up. I opened my eyes, couldn’t see where I was, it was just bright light, too bright.

“Sick, going to be sick,” I got out. Hands got under my head and back and lifted me up and to one side. The pain made me groan. I felt a steel bowl against my cheek and threw up into it. The action drove a knife into my chest and twisted it. I threw up again and fell back on the bed to get away from the pain. There was no escape.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry…”

“It’s all right. You’re gonna be all right. You’ve got three broken ribs. That’s why it’s hurting so much.” There’s something soothing about an Irish accent even when they’re giving bad news.

I was bathed in sweat and felt a cold cloth placed on my brow. A blessing. I opened my eyes. A round freckled face adorned by a crisp white cap smiled down at me.

“Hospital?”

“In your state, that would be the best place, would you not say?”

My state? I wondered how bad I must look. Every inch, from my head to my toes, was hurting. I couldn’t lift an arm without pain erupting in a dozen unconnected places. Those Nazi bastards had really done me over. And then memory hit me. I didn’t need any scribbles in my jotter to jog this scene to mind.

“Raus! Raus Englander!”

They were in shirt sleeves and braces, their boots shining up to mid-calf. They hit me even as I began to sit up. They dragged me on to the floor and gave me a couple of kicks to make sure I got the message about who was boss.

I tried to keep up the bluff. I gasped out why in French and tried to use my small vocabulary to maintain the pretence. It didn’t work. I knew they were Gestapo, but I couldn’t recall how I knew or how I’d got here, wherever here was. I was already bloody and sore. But I soon found that they hadn’t had their first team do me over.

I saw Wilson’s fleshy face in grey uniform. I heard him shouting at me in German. I don’t know how long they held me or how many times they hauled me out of my cell for a beating or a drowning. It was funny how quickly you dropped the pretence of being tough; they can make you scream like a child. But one day the routine changed. I think it was after they’d gone further than even they intended; a goon got over-excited with his lead pipe. I suppose that’s when they fractured my skull. I was unconscious off and on for a while. No idea how long.

They dragged me from my cell and threw me in the back of a truck. I hoped they were simply taking me out to be shot. I just wanted it over with.

But it was only the start. I saw the great metal arches of a railway station and a big clock, painted green and with cherubs chasing each other round the dial. I smelled the metallic steam before they flung me into a cattle truck. There were others in the smelly box. Too many others. The doors were closed and locked. The one high-up window had barbed wire round it. We had nowhere to shit except one corner. There was no food, no water. We stank, and I felt life ebbing out of me through every wound and bruise in my wrecked body. Though there was little enough room, the men gave me space to lie, curled up in a corner. They were kind, but remote, in the way of men waiting for someone to die and knowing they could do nothing.

Except for one man: Joseph the tailor. He had a couple of needles pinned behind his lapels. He tore the bottom of my shirt and loosened some threads. Then he stitched me as best he could. I was surprised how much the scalp hurt. I guess the skin had separated and he really had to tug at it to pull it together.

Joseph worked on me with great love and attention as though I were a piece of his finest cloth. His round face kept shifting between a beam and a frown for what they’d done to me.

He did well enough, so that a couple of days later I survived the changeover at Paris. The men held me up as we were herded across the platforms. I saw people, ordinary French people, watching us from behind a line of Germans, and doing nothing. The journey began again. If anything the cattle box was smaller. We stopped and started a dozen times. They sprayed the train with water from hoses so that we were left soaking and shivering and still thirsty. I drew into myself. I guess I was unconscious for most of the journey.

Finally we halted in the leafy suburbs of a small German town. We could see the pretty roofs over the watch towers as we were shovelled out of our boxes. The welcoming committee had guns and dogs. Those of us who could walk were made to march to the parade ground in front of the rows of barracks. Those that couldn’t walk were dragged aside and shot. It was a powerful incentive. I got to my feet in a daze and the men half carried half jostled me forward. I suppose Joseph had an investment in me and he got the others involved. In the coming days, when I was given a little food and rest, I began to heal.

None of the guards paid me much attention; there was no interest in roughing me up when I’d been so patently done over by professionals. And half the time – as much as I could recall through the delirium – I was a joke to them. They had weekly fitness tests to cull the numbers – the penalty for failure was a bullet, if you were lucky. You had to run 25 yards. Run for your life. Every time, I forced a terror-filled sprint from my body. But I can remember the guards laughing at me as I kept veering into the walls of the hut. They thought it was hilarious.