Assassin

66

If Carver stood up, directly under the beam, the pull of the bungee cord against his slave collar didn't hurt his throat or restrict his breathing. If he sat on the chair, absolutely upright, trying to ignore the rasping agony of his open wounds rubbing against the rough wooden chair-back, it felt no worse than a tight dress-uniform collar. The moment he tried to do anything else the trouble began.

If he slumped his shoulders, or lowered his head, for example, the pressure increased against his Adam's apple, making him want to gag. Sleep, or even the slightest relaxation, would be impossible.

There was a part of him that almost admired Tyzack for the thoroughness with which he'd thought the nightmare through, right down to the ceaseless jabber of the TV sets that surrounded him like medieval peasants jeering at a man in the stocks. He'd already seen a report from the site in Bristol where the President would give his speech in a little over forty-eight hours. Regular updates had been promised, an inescapable countdown to the moment when Tyzack struck.

Carver wondered what state he would be in by then. The pain and exhaustion would increase hour by hour, steadily draining him of the will to live. Yet it would be equally hard to kill himself. The elasticity of the cord and the padding of the collar allowed no possibility of a quick hanging. It might be possible to asphyxiate himself, but it would take a long time – several minutes at least – and an implacable, unrelenting death-wish. That, too, would surely be beyond him. He had no choice but to endure a half-life, a purgatory that would continue until Tyzack returned. Assuming that he ever did. He could just leave Carver to rot. Or he might be arrested or killed on his mission, whatever it was.

Carver's heart was pounding now, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He'd let his thoughts run away with him and now he was close to panic.

'Come on, get a grip, you wanker!'

His voice was little more than a husky rasp through his battered vocal cords. Shakily, he got to his feet, straightened his back, ignoring the protesting shots of pain, pulled back his shoulders and let out a single, voice-cracking roar of pain and frustration, holding it until his lungs were empty. When he breathed again, the panic was gone and his pulse was steady.

His throat, though, felt as if it had been scrubbed from the inside with wire wool. He needed a drink. The prospect of enduring another fight against the cord as he dragged himself towards the table, where the plastic container sat taunting him with its fifteen litres of cool, fresh water, sent another shot of fear through his system. Yet far from putting him off, the fear only drove him on. If he was to survive, he had to turn the desperate scrabble for water into a routine. He had to find a way of normalizing the experience. Better yet, he could try moving the water closer to him, a lot closer, so that he could get to it easily – or as easily as he could do anything in Tyzack's chamber of horrors.

Carver told himself to start with the basics: get a drink.

He took three deep breaths, flooding his lungs with oxygen. The fourth breath he held and stepped forward towards the table, his total concentration focused on the water bottle. He felt the grip on his neck tighten and willed himself to ignore the sensations of nausea and asphyxiation. All the while the cord was pulling at him, trying to force him back.

He was still barely halfway across the open floor between his chair and the table.

Carver leaned forward into his next step. His blood was pounding in his ears and the edges of his vision were becoming blurred. For a moment he craved the vicious sting of the cane on his back, forcing him to go onwards whether he wanted to or not. It was even harder making himself do it.

One more step: he pushed his left foot ahead of him as far as it would go, till the toe of his shoe was almost touching the table. Then he leaned forward one last time.

He could almost feel his larynx collapsing under the pressure from the collar. His craving for oxygen was as desperate as a drowning man's.

He reached out his arms, joints and tendons straining, fingers outstretched, and somehow his left hand managed to curl around the neck of the bottle, while his right fumbled for the little plastic cup beside it.

Carver was close to blacking out as he lifted the cup to the lip of the bottle.

He tilted the bottle towards him. Water gurgled up the spout, but did not reach the lip. He would have to tilt it further before any came out.

The bottle tipped over another few degrees. Now Carver felt as though he was fighting a war on two fronts. The weight of the bottle was dragging him downwards, just as the cord was pulling him up and away.

He was desperate for air now. But if he let go of the bottle, he might never manage to get it again.

He had to get the water into the plastic cup, but still it wouldn't come out.

He tilted the bottle a few more degrees, the strain becoming worse as its centre of gravity shifted over.

And then something gave.

What went first he didn't know. But suddenly his back foot was slipping and scrabbling for purchase on the wooden floor. The bottle was sliding on the table.

There was even more tension pulling against his throat. The full weight of the bottle was bearing down on his fingers wrapped around its neck. As the bungee cord pulled him inexorably away, his fingers lost a fraction of their purchase. But that was enough.

The bottle slipped from his grasp, teetered for a fraction of a second and then toppled over, thudding against the top of the table and then rolling sideways, water now pouring from its spout, and all Carver could do was watch as it fell from the side of the table, crashed down on to the floor and poured its precious cargo over the pine boards.

A pool of water spread across the floor, too far away and too low for him even to touch, let alone scoop into his hands.

The water gurgled. It splashed. It puddled. And every drop of it was wasted.

He could only stand and watch despairingly as little by little it slipped between the cracks in the floorboards and seeped, agonizingly slowly, into the soft, pale wood.

Carver lunged despairingly, trying to reach the overturned bottle and the last litre or two that remained within it. He strained until he felt that his shoulder sockets would be torn apart and his head torn from his body. He fought against suffocation and unconsciousness. But it was no good. The bottle remained out of reach, untouchable, its open top staring blankly at him.

He knew then that it was over. Tyzack had won. He would hit the President. And Carver was going to die within the next few days. From now on it was simply a matter of exactly how and when.