Brute Force

112

My head throbbed. I tried to lift my eyelids but they seemed determined to stay glued together. I was dry and thirsty, but my mouth felt too furred up to let anything through again.

I thought I could hear diesel engines, big ones, but for all I knew they could be inside my head.

I took as deep a breath as I could manage and forced my eyes open.

My vision blurred and my head spun. It was like having a lifetime's supply of hangovers in one hit.

At least I was aware how bad I felt; I took that as a good sign.

And wherever I was, it was hotter than hell.

I remembered the first injection, and a couple of the others I'd been given since to keep me under. Rapid heartbeat, dry mouth, vision beginning to go hazy . . . It all happened so quickly it had to be a scopolamine and morphine cocktail. The mix depresses the central nervous system. I'd treated a few targets to it, but never thought I'd be getting the good news myself.

Attempting to get my head into real-life mode, I checked inside my jacket. They'd had everything away: the Richardson passport and the card and the money. It wasn't worth worrying about; worrying wouldn't bring them back.

My eyes were starting to focus but my fingers were numb. I looked around me, flexing both hands as the pins-and-needles kicked in and they slowly came back to life. I was sitting on a sheet of steel. Some kind of bunk. There was no bedding, only the bunk fixed to the wall, and a slim wardrobe just big enough to hang a jacket in. Next to it was a tiny stainless-steel sink.

The bunk lurched and my head rolled onto my right shoulder.

I wasn't travelling first class. The whole cabin was layered with grime.

There was no porthole. I was probably below sea level and near the engines.

Where's Lynn?

Oh yeah, I remembered.

I rubbed away at days of stubble on my grease-coated skin. My eyes were gummed up and my mouth tasted stale and acidic.

I turned my head towards a steel door, painted to look like wood panelling. The stench of diesel was overpowering.

I dragged myself to my feet and stumbled to the not-so-stainless-steel sink. My knees buckled and I had to grip the rim to stop myself collapsing.

I pushed down on the tap. Water dribbled out. I bent down and sucked in a mouthful.

I staggered to the door.

The handle wouldn't budge. I'd known it wouldn't, but I had to try anyway.

I went back to the sink. I unbuttoned my jeans, tucked in the sweatshirt, pulled up my socks. If I could sort myself physically, maybe I could sort myself mentally.

I was definitely on a boat, and it was moving. On its way to Ireland? Maybe she'd bought the idea of me appearing on TV.

I stooped and sucked again at the trickle of water.

The image of Lynn sprawled across Layla's steps forced its way into my mind. His dad would have been proud of him, giving up his life for something that he believed in. I felt admiration and anger, in equal measure. Nobody was ever going to know what he'd done, and this time next year nobody was even going to care. Nobody apart from me. If I got out of this shit alive.

The door rattled.

Somebody was working the handle.

I took the couple of paces back to the bunk and lay down. What else could I do?

The door swung open. Box-cutter filled my field of view, but he wasn't alone. More than one pair of hands reached down and yanked me off the bunk and onto the floor.

I tensed every muscle that would still pay attention and curled into a ball. I took a hard kick in the back, and then my world became a frenzy of black leather. All I could do was stay foetal and take it. The drugs still had a hold. I'd be too slow to escape or retaliate. I'd have to bide my time.

Each time a boot connected, my whole body convulsed. The drugs were an advantage. I felt I had a barrier against the worst of the pain, at least for now. Tomorrow I'd be suffering. But at least I now knew that tomorrow would come.

The flurry of kicks and punches seemed indiscriminate, but none of them were landing on my face.