Spark

37

Beed walked casually into the kitchen, and Carver heard water running. Splashing into something metallic.

A few minutes later Beed returned carrying several folded dish towels and a roasting pan half full of water. Some of the water sloshed onto the floor.

He scooted the chair over so it was facing away from the sofa, then tilted it back into the cushions so Carver was half reclining, staring up at the ceiling.

“In a little while you’ll be dying to tell me everything from childhood on,” Beed said. He began wrapping the towels around Carver’s head and face, over his eyes, nose, and mouth. Carver could breathe, but it wasn’t easy. As his vision was completely blocked, he had to resist the impulse to panic and squirm in the chair.

He was familiar with this method of torture and knew what was coming next. He told himself Beed was an expert and wouldn’t let him drown. Not quite.

On the other hand, Beed was a fireball alcoholic no doubt twitching with his thirst, dangerous and unpredictable.

Water hit the towels, splashing coldly down Carver’s chest and into his lap. Within seconds he felt the same chill on his face as the towels absorbed the water. Faintly he could hear Beed walking back and forth between the chair and the kitchen, refilling the blue metal pan and maybe other containers with water.

Every few minutes a torrent of water would hit Carver’s head swaddled in the increasingly soaked towels. Water was in his mouth now, choking him as he tried to breathe.

He panicked and fought the tape binding him to the chair, hearing his own gurgling and retching cries muffled by the thick towels. Every heartbeat felt like a hot wire piercing his chest. Warmth suffused his drenched pants around his crotch; his bladder had released.

Then air and light, as the towels were unwound.

Beed was grinning down at him as if they were sharing a fun game. “Wanna do that again?”

Carver said nothing. He felt a stab of terror and something else as he saw that Beed was holding the half-full quart bourbon bottle from the kitchen.

Beed shrugged and wrapped the towels around Carver’s head again, over his face.

More water.

Carver tried to hold his breath, but eventually exhaled rasping into the towels. His following inhalation brought water with it; he could actually feel its cold liquidity in his lungs as he gagged and tried to cry out. This was how it felt to breathe something other than air-he was drowning sitting in a chair!

Somehow he gained control and sat trembling. He could hear Beed make another trip to the kitchen to carry more water.

Beed let him wait in silence.

Minutes seemed to pass. Five of them, maybe ten.

Then more water splashed onto the towels.

A few seconds later, more water.

This wasn’t going to happen with regularity; it would be impossible to predict and prepare for it.

Carver arched his back against his bonds but the tape didn’t give. The effort made him inhale liquid and he coughed and gagged. He tried to plead, knowing Beed wouldn’t understand him through the layers of wet towels.

No response. The towels remained. Carver managed to swallow enough water to allow himself to breathe. He waited in fear for another dousing and near drowning. Beed was boozing heavily on Hattie’s liquor, he knew, losing life-saving judgment.

The waiting became almost as unbearable as the drowning sensation. Carver knew that was the way it was supposed to be, but it was impossible for him to make it any other way. Terror sapped logic and willpower; his responses were automatic and shamed and frightened him. That was how torture worked.

An immeasurable amount of time passed, perhaps even an hour, before the towels were again removed.

“Shall we chat now?” Beed asked, as Carver pulled in sweet, dry air and squinted into the light. Beed took a swig from the bottle and set it on the coffee table. It was only about a quarter full now. Beed didn’t seem sober, didn’t seem drunk.

But then an alky like Beed might be much drunker than he appeared.

Carver simply stared at him, trying not to rasp as he breathed.

Beed licked his lips, and something deep in his eyes changed, as if booze had overtaken reason and patience. He lost it then, said, “Fuck this!” He grabbed Carver’s shirt and yanked Carver and the chair upright off the sofa cushions.

“Tell me where the bottle is!” Beed said, and backhanded Carver across the face.

Carver tried to roll with the blow but pain bit into him. Next came a punch to the stomach and his breath left him in a hollow scream. He would have doubled over, but that was impossible.

“You’re making noise now, anyway,” Beed said. “Ready to have that chat?”

Carver couldn’t have answered if he’d tried. He tasted blood. Swallowed. Almost vomited.

Beed took another pull of bourbon, then swaggered into the kitchen.

Carver sat for a long time listening to things being banged around in there.

Beed wasn’t carrying water when he returned this time. He had the length of black rubber hose from the spray attachment on the sink.

“This won’t break any bones,” he said, “but it’ll bruise you clean through to the other side.”

He began lashing back and forth through the air with the hose, then stepped forward so Carver was inside the dangerous arc.

Carver clenched his eyes shut. Pain hit him like successive lightning bolts as he writhed beneath the hose’s dull and damaging repeated impacts.

“Start talking anytime,” Beed said, working the hose with the effortless and relentless grace of a man scything weeds.

Carver glared at Beed, glanced at the bottle, and spat in Beed’s face.

Beed stepped back in disbelief. Carver couldn’t quite believe it himself. It had come from having nothing more to lose.

Beed shook for a few seconds with rage. Then he used his sleeve to wipe the spittle from his face, angled forward like a batter stepping up to the plate, and drew back the hose with both arms to lay it across Carver’s head.

He stayed in that pose, like a TV freeze-frame, staring down at Carver with suspicion and puzzlement.

Then he dropped the hose and clutched his left arm, which was pressed to his side. His mouth gaped wide as he struggled to speak. No sound came out. He looked like an old-time heavy overacting in a silent movie.

He staggered in a tight circle, drew a deep, screeching breath, then fell facedown on the carpet.

He didn’t moan. He didn’t move. He might as well have been furniture.

Carver sat trembling, sobbing with pain and trying to stay conscious.