Tom Cain - The accident man

"Make him apologize," she said. "I would like that very much."

Carver did not move.

Zhukovski nodded.

Titov smirked at Carver, then pressed a round white button on the black box in his hands.

The shock made every nerve scream in pain, jerking his body like an epileptic marionette, rocking his head from side to side and ripping an animal howl of pain from his throat.

Titov kept his thumb on the button. One second… two… three.

Unable to maintain his balance or control his limbs, Carver dropped to the floor, his fall barely broken by his tethered hands. He lay there writhing helplessly, his wrists and ankles tugging and scraping against their shackles, drawing blood. He was utterly controlled by the electric commands ripping through his central nervous system. His body was slippery with sweat. His heart was pounding. He was about to black out.

Then, at last, Zhukovski nodded again and Titov lifted his finger from the button. The current stopped flowing and Carver's body flopped into blissful immobility.

Gradually, his pulse slowed. Carver lay immobile on the floor, while his Russian audience compared notes on his involuntary performance, the men jigging about on the couch and hooting with laughter as they mimicked him thrashing about. Then he gathered his breath and slowly, painfully, pulled his knees up behind him, so that he was sitting on his haunches, with his head on the ground, like a peasant prostrate before an emperor. It took him a few more seconds to gather his strength, and more seconds still before he could drag himself half upright and kneeling.

His fall had brought him closer to Zhukovski and Alix. They were only a few feet away now. His eyes were almost level with her breasts. With every breath he was bathed in her heady, spicy scent. His eyes were filled with the silver light dancing across her body. Even now, after everything that had happened, he was overwhelmed by desire, torn apart by longing for her.

"Apologize" said Zhukovski. "Kiss her feet and beg for forgiveness."

Carver looked up, searching Alix's eyes for some sign of hope, some recognition that he had not been utterly deceived.

"You don't want this," he said.

"I do," she replied. Her voice was steady and cool, leaving no room for doubt.

He barely heard when Zhukvoski repeated the single word "Apologize," or noticed when he nodded again to Titov.

As he endured that second electric whipping, it seemed to Carver that it was a voice other than his that screamed so loudly, another body that flopped and twisted so spastically. When the current stopped and he opened his eyes, he saw he was lying right at Alix's feet. He did not need to get to his knees again. Once the power to move had returned, he could wriggle forward on his stomach, his pulse still racing, his chest heaving as he gasped for air, the sweat dripping from his body. He could stretch his neck so that his lips kissed the shining black leather as he whispered, "I'm sorry." But whether he was apologizing to her, or simply to himself he really couldn't tell.

Alix gave a flick of her foot, kicking his face away from her. Carver lay motionless, facedown on the rug, the gross physicality of his naked body a stark contrast to the intricate delicacy of the rug's swirling, intersecting patterns.

Then she said a few words in Russian to Zhukovski. The Russian got off his chair, settled on his haunches, and grabbed Carver's face, lifting it so that the two men were looking into each other's eyes.

"Let me translate," said Zhukovski. "Alexandra says you disgust her. She says she wishes to leave the room before the sight of you makes her physically sick."

He paused for a moment as Alix turned on a four-inch heel and stalked from the room.

"Take a good look, Mr Carver. You will never see her again."

"I won't be missing much," he croaked. His mouth was parchment-dry, his throat scarred by the force of his screams.

Zhukovski let go of his head, which flopped back down on the carpet. "Come now, you don't really mean that. Even now, after she has reduced you to this pitiful state, you would crawl after her if you could, begging her to take you back."

Carver didn't reply. He was too busy trying to get back up on his feet. Paying painstaking attention to every movement, he made his way from his belly to his knees. He put one foot flat on the floor, then the other. He drew himself up until he was standing to attention in front of Zhukovski, who had returned to his chair and was watching the spectacle with amused interest. Carver swayed slightly, grinding his teeth as he struggled for his balance and his dignity. His cuffed hands were held down in front of him, pathetically preserving his modesty.

Zhukovski gave three slow, deliberate claps.

"Congratulations," he said. "That was done like a true soldier. But my point remains. The woman has destroyed you. You fought my best man, Kursk, to a standstill. You overcame three of his subordinates-look at the mess you made of Titov here. You killed Trench and most of his men. But Alexandra brought you to your knees."

Still Carver said nothing. It was taking all his concentration just to remain upright. Zhukovski watched his striving, then spoke a few words to Titov, who at once picked up an ornately carved wooden chair, heavily decorated with gold leaf, and placed it behind Carver.

"Sit down," said Zhukovski. "Relax. I would be interested to hear your side of the story."

He issued another order to Titov, who walked around to Zhukovski's chair and handed his master the small black box.

Carver found himself staring at the omnipotent white button. Zhukovski caught his eye. Carver's guts tightened as his system flooded with cortisol, the stress hormone, the anticipator of pain and bringer of fear. He swallowed hard. His armpits prickled.

Zhukovski smiled, then pressed the button, holding it for a single second, just enough to power another jolt through Carver's body that picked him right off the chair, yelping like a wounded dog, and set him back down again with an impact that almost sent him toppling backward to the floor. Titov gave a gleeful cackle of delight and directed a sharp volley of Russian profanities in Carver's direction. Zhukovski nodded contentedly.

"Well, we've established that this keeps you under control," he said. "We can talk alone, just the two of us."

His men were dismissed with a wave of Zhukovski's hand. On his way from the room, Titov stopped by Carver's chair, looked at him for a second, and smacked a right-handed haymaker into the side of Carver's face.

The punch wasn't as powerful as it might have been. Titov had to hit downward to reach his seated target and Carver was able to twist his head, deflecting some of the impact. So he was stunned, rather than knocked out cold; his jawbone was cracked, not shattered. But the pain was just as bad. As Titov left the room, happily rubbing his bruised knuckles, Carver twisted and rotated his head, trying to clear his brain. His mouth was filled with blood from his shredded cheek and battered gums. His tongue gingerly probed his teeth. A couple of molars felt as loose as baby teeth.

Suddenly, without any warning, his body shook with a tremor that seized him from head to toe-an unwanted reminder of his earlier convulsions, like the aftershock that follows an earthquake.

"Titov has never had much self-control," mused Zhukovski, ignoring Carver as he squirmed and shivered. "So far as he is concerned, that is just an opening skirmish. He will want a lot more satisfaction before his score is settled. And I agree with him. I too have not finished with you. I want you to understand about Alexandra, that you never meant anything to her at all. So let me tell you about the real woman, not your fantasy lover."

He got up from his chair and moved to a sideboard on which bottles and glasses were arrayed. There he poured himself a glass of vodka, neat, and returned to his chair.