Revenger

47

Donny Bakunin climbed the stairs to his fourth-floor flat like a mountaineer trying to scale Everest without the benefit of oxygen. Every step required its own individual effort and act of concentration. He was seeing a bit better now through the slowly diminishing glare and had recovered a little of his hearing, though everything still sounded as though it was coming to him from the far end of a very long tunnel: even his own footsteps seemed a million miles away. Most of the bleeding seemed to have stopped, but the pain of each individual cut pierced him even more sharply than before, and every single part of his body appeared to have been individually battered, making its own particular contribution to his overall world of pain.

He fumbled for the first of his two front-door keys, a Banham, and then jabbed it helplessly at the hole until it somehow slipped in and turned. The Yale was even harder to master, and Bakunin was almost weeping with frustration before he finally made it work and was able to open the door.

His attention was entirely focused on himself and his personal suffering. He was unaware of the figure observing him from the stairs, and shuffled into his drab, barren living space without the first idea that he was in any immediate danger. He was just relieved to have got away from Netherton Street in one piece, unmolested by the police. Then he turned to close the door behind him, and suddenly it didn’t seem to want to shut. In fact it was pushing against him, and he was being forced backwards. His jumbled senses were unable to make sense of what was happening until the weight on the far side of the door shifted and manifested itself in front of him as the figure of a man.

His eyes were shaded by the peak of his cap, and his nose and mouth were hidden behind the blue scarf knotted around his face. Something about him seemed familiar, though Bakunin was in no state to remember where he had seen him before. Bakunin didn’t even see the two hands that slapped him hard on either side of the face, one after the other, hurting and disorientating him still further. He was unable to offer any resistance as he was bundled across the room and sat on a plain wooden chair. He was hit again, the same way as before, and then, from far, far away, he heard a muffled voice say, ‘Don’t move.’

Bakunin wasn’t capable of movement. He was physically shattered, mentally drained and close to tears. He felt as helpless as a small boy at the mercy of a playground bully, and he just wanted to curl up in a small, foetal ball and cover his head with his hands until all the monsters went away.

He was hardly aware of the telephone cable, ripped from the wall, that was being tied around his shins, binding them to the chair legs. Nor did he make the slightest protest as his arms and chest were secured to the back of the chair. He was almost grateful for the immobility. He felt supported, and just sat there limply, with his head hanging down, lacking the energy even to be curious about what was going to happen next.

Carver had absolutely no concern whatever for the riot leader’s wellbeing. He never wanted to kill another human being again if he could possibly help it. But hurting one was another matter. Carver needed information, and he wasn’t going to be bound by any rules or regulations while he got it. He was filming the interrogation, too. He wanted the whole world to know the truth of what had happened.

He started with the basics: ‘What’s your name?’

The man raised his head. There was a frantic look on his face. ‘What? What? Can’t hear,’ he whined, turning his head to one side and leaning forward so that his ear was tilted towards Carver.

Carver bent down and put his mouth close to it. He repeated, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Oh,’ said the man, as if surprised that it was such a simple question. And then: ‘Not telling you.’

Carver gestured with his finger, bringing the man’s ear closer to him again. ‘Yes, you are,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

The man sat back, his mouth clamped shut.

‘Suit yourself,’ said Carver and kicked the man in the chest with the flat of his sole, knocking over the chair. The man cried out as the back of his head hit the floor, but that was all he could do as he lay there like a dead beetle, immobile and helpless.

Carver left him there and went into the flat’s grubby kitchen, which was lined with decrepit old units, fronted in chipped and scratched white melamine. The sink was filled with dirty crockery, making a mockery of the yellow washing-up gloves draped over its edge. Carver put them on. He took the towel and stuck it under the cold tap until it was wet through, then wrung it out just enough to stop it dripping. Next he filled a teacup with more cold water before taking both the towel and the cup back into the living room.

Carver got down on one knee by the man’s head. ‘You’ve heard of waterboarding, right?’ he said.

The man’s eyes widened in alarm and he jerked his head from side to side as he whimpered, ‘No, no… please…’

Carver pressed the towel down over the man’s face, drawing it tight across his nose so that he couldn’t breathe without inhaling the water still left in the fabric. He held the gathered ends of the towel bunched beneath the man’s chin in one hand. With the other, Carver raised the cup and then delicately poured a thin stream of water down on to the towel, pulling hard on the fabric to prevent the desperate man from moving his nose and mouth away from the dripping water.

It would, Carver knew, feel exactly like drowning — mostly because it actually was a form of drowning. Waterboarding could be fatal, even to a fit interrogation subject. This man was in very bad shape and his lungs had certainly been damaged to some extent by the blast, so his tolerance would be much lower than the average. Carver gave it fifteen seconds, knowing that it would have seemed far, far longer to the man being tortured, and then released his grip on the towel.

The man fought for breath, and the sounds he made as he struggled to get air down into his lungs were so like those of the dying bomb-victims in the Lion Market that Carver just wanted to press the towel back down on his face and keep it there till he couldn’t breathe any more, simply to shut him up.

He fought against temptation and made himself stick to his mission.

‘One more time: what’s your name?’

No response.

‘What’s your name? Or do you want another helping?’

The man shook his head. ‘No… no… I’ll tell you my name. I’ll tell you anything. Just, please stop hurting me.’

‘All right then. We’re going to talk. And I’m going to film it.’

Carver fished the head cam out of his pocket, turned it back on and pointed it at the man. ‘So, let’s start again,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Bakunin. My name is Donny Bakunin.’

‘And you organized the riot at Netherton Street tonight?’

‘Yes… well, no…’

‘Which: yes or no?’

‘Yes, I got everyone together on the street. I gave them their orders… and I told them not to hurt anyone… I made that very clear! I want everyone to know that!’

‘I’m sure people will really appreciate your efforts. Now, who told you to start the riot?’

Bakunin’s eyes widened. ‘How did you know?’

‘Who was it? Who told you not to hit the pub?’

Bakunin’s eyes darted from side to side. ‘Have you been listening? What are you? MI5? GCHQ?’

‘I’m a man who wants to know where you get your orders.’

‘I don’t know! I never got a name. We never met. I tell you, I don’t know!’

‘Did it have anything to do with Mark Adams?’

‘Adams! I’d never work for a fascist like Adams!’

‘Yes, you would. You’ll work for anyone. We’ve already established that. So, was this the first time?’

Bakunin shook his head.

‘So what was the procedure?’

‘I got a call, telling me where it had to happen and when.’

‘When was the last call?’

‘Today, about six o’clock.’

‘Did you get paid?’

Bakunin’s silence was almost as good as a confession. Almost.

Carver held the towel up so Bakunin could see it. Then he lowered his hand again and repeated the question: ‘Did you get paid?’

‘Yes.’

‘Cash? Bank transfer?’

‘Transfer.’

‘What bank?’

‘First Global.’

‘Based where?’

‘Grand Cayman.’

Carver burst out laughing. ‘An anarchist with an offshore account. That’s just perfect. Where’s your phone, you hypocritical sack of shit?’

‘In my coat.’

Carver searched the pockets of the duffel coat until he found the phone. ‘Security code?’

‘One-one-five-nine.’

Carver punched it in. The washing-up gloves made it hard to press the numbers, but the inconvenience was worth it: he’d leave no fingerprints on the phone. As the home screen appeared he said, ‘Let me guess: first of January, 1959… the date of the Cuban revolution. What does that make you, the Fidel Castro of Clapham?’

He opened up the phone’s call history. There was an incoming one at 18.03 all right, and it looked like the correct one because the number was blocked.

‘What did you do when you wanted to call him?’

‘There was a number, but it only led to a voicemail. It’s in the address book under Hegel.’

‘Of course it is.’

Bakunin had been the last stop on a series of cut-outs between the original planners of the riot and the foot soldiers who had actually put it in motion. The whole purpose of the system was to ensure that no one could betray anyone else’s identity. For now it was enough for Carver that he knew for sure that someone, somewhere, had planned everything. And speaking of that someone, he was late for dinner with Adams.

Carver used the towel to wipe down the cable tying Bakunin to the chair. He kept the gloves on as he left the flat, and disposed of them in a waste-disposal bin several blocks away. The cap and scarf each went into separate bins. Then he grabbed a cab and set off for the restaurant.