Heathen/Nemesis

Forty-Eight

‘No,’ Connelly shouted as he saw the glowing rings and felt their heat.

Farrell took a step towards him and swung the butt of the .45 hard, catching him across the forehead.

The agent went down heavily, a gash on his head weeping blood down the side of his face. He rolled on the floor, moaning, and Farrell nodded to one of his companions.

‘Shut him up,’ he said. The second man reached into his pocket and pulled out a long length of what looked like ribbon. He slipped it around Connelly’s chin and tugged it tight across his mouth, gagging him, then he dragged the agent upright. The other man moved over to join them, gripping Connelly’s right arm so that his hand was groping at empty air. Farrell held the gun steady and looked directly at Connelly.

‘I’m only going to ask you these questions once,’ he said, ‘so listen. When I ask you to answer, the gag will be removed. If you attempt to shout for help, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?’

Connelly nodded, the action making his head ache. Blood had begun to run into the corner of his eye and he blinked to try and clear his vision.

The heat from the cooker was intense and sweat already beaded his forehead and face.

‘Where is the book?’ Farrell said.

The gag was pulled free.

‘I don’t know,’ Connelly said, his eyes filling with tears of terror. ‘I don’t ...’

The gag was pulled tightly back into position.

Farrell nodded.

The man holding Connelly’s arm pushed it forward, forcing it down onto the largest of the electric rings, holding it there.

Searing, excruciating agony ripped through his hand and up his arm until it seemed to engulf his entire body. His scream was muffled by the gag; the sound was like a child shrieking inside a locked room.

As the hand was held on the blazing ring, the stench of burning flesh was clearly noticable in the hot air.

As the hand was finally pulled away, flesh stuck to the ring as if welded there by the heat. Tiny pieces of skin shrivelled and cooked on the red-hot ring and wisps of smoke rose into the air.

Connelly felt himself losing consciousness but he was aware of being slapped hard across the face, even if the pain of the blow was negligible compared to the mind-numbing suffering he felt from his burned hand. Blisters rose immediately, some of them in the shape of the ring. He felt as if his entire arm and hand were ablaze; as if someone had turned a blowtorch on them.

‘Where’s the fucking book?’ Farrell snarled, moving closer. ‘What did Ward do with it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Connelly sobbed, tears mingling with the blood and sweat on his face. There was a dark stain on his dressing gown and he could feel urine running freely down his leg.

‘Tell me,’ Farrell said, glaring at him.

‘He never told me about his work. I swear on my fucking life I don’t know where it is.’ His eyes bulged madly in their sockets, like bloodshot ping-pong balls threatening to burst from his skull. ‘I don’t know anything about the book, I don’t even think he’d started writing it.’

Farrell looked puzzled but merely nodded to his companion.

The gag was tugged back into place, cutting off Connelly’s exhortations for mercy. The muffled scream rose in his throat again as he felt the heat growing more intense, the closer to the blazing rings his hand was pulled.

Three inches.

He would rather died on the spot than endure that pain again.

Two inches.

The man tugged harder, using his immense strength to force Connelly’s hand down towards the large ring.

One inch.

‘Where’s the book?’ Farrell said again.

As his hand was crushed down onto the red-hot ring again, Connelly’s body jerked convulsively and so savagely that the man holding him up was almost knocked off balance, but he stood his ground while his companion pressed down on the limb.

Blisters which had formed the first time now burst, weeping clear fluid onto the burner which hissed like an angry snake. The whole hand turned a deep shade of scarlet, the flesh itself heating up. Connelly, barely conscious now, felt as if his blood was boiling, as if his bones were calcifying under the incredible heat. Pain hit him in one intolerable wave and he blacked out.

The mercy of unconsciousness was denied him; as one of the men slapped him while the other threw water from the tap over him, also tugging his hair in an effort to bring him round.

He awoke to screaming pain in his hand, which hung uselessly at his side. The palm and most of his wrist were scorched black, the flesh seared into thick red welts. And again there was that sickly sweet stench of cooked flesh which clogged his nostrils and made him want to vomit. When his head lolled back, his hair was seized and tugged hard.

‘Last chance,’ Farrell said flatly. ‘Where’s the book?’

Connelly was sobbing uncontrollably now.

‘You can’t do this, please stop, Jesus fucking Christ, I don’t know. Oh God,’ he whimpered, tears pouring down his cheeks.

The man holding him tugged his hair and yanked his head back.

‘Ward hadn’t even written the fucking book, I swear to God.’

Farrell pushed his companion aside and grabbed the agent by the throat, almost lifting him off his feet, staring right into his bulging eyes.

‘What do you mean he hadn’t written the book?’ he said.

‘He was still researching it.’

‘He stole it.’

‘Stole what?’ Connelly babbled frantically.

‘He stole the book. He took it from us.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Liar,’ snapped Farrell. He pushed Connelly’s head towards the cooker, determined to push his face against the blistering rings.

‘I don’t know,’ he shrieked, the screams cut off by Farrell’s free hand. The muffled bellows were the only sounds he could make as his face was pushed closer and closer to the glowing rings. He could smell his own burned flesh on them, could see blackened streamers of skin sticking to the metal.

‘Ward stole the book from us,’ Farrell said. ‘Where did he hide it?’

The heat was unbearable. Connelly used every ounce of strength he had to push himself away from the cooker, but Farrell was a powerful man and forced the agent’s face ever closer to the ring. Another two inches and the burning cooker ring would be against his flesh.

‘Tell me where he hid it,’ Farrell urged.

One inch.

‘He doesn’t know,’ said one of the other men, smiling thinly as he watched the agent struggle.

Connelly was fighting as hard as he could but it was useless. The heat made him feel faint; as his face was moved closer, he could actually feel the blistering heat drying his eye.

It was over now.

Farrell suddenly yanked him upright, away from the cooker. As he did he drove a fist hard into Connelly’s face, the impact propelling him across the kitchen. He slammed into a wall, his head snapping back to crack against the plaster, then he fell forward.

‘Bring him,’ Farrell said, nodding towards the door. ‘We’re taking him with us.’