40

Nevertheless, once he’d switched off the light, settled under the covers, the sides of the airless chamber began to oppress. Sleep was as elusive as a taste of sweetness in salt water. Yet if he wished to sleep, he had never expected to succeed; only to gain respite until dawn; just waiting for the sun to clamber back over the skyline of London and to sink its claws back into his pulpy mind.

He couldn’t sleep but he suffered waking nightmares. All of the events and experiences of the past replayed in his mind; while he stared into the darkness of that space. Again he staggered down the lumpy furrows of Close Copse, a devilish guy squeezing his arm and forcing him along. Worst of all he returned to the column of light that revealed Emma’s terrified eyes. He was tearing at her clothes and her screams tore at his ears. He was betraying the excitement and trust of a passionate young woman. Clive felt that he would never be able to escape these terrible images. He realised that he’d been right at the centre of such cynical brutality.

Pitt lost physical feeling and his body became light to the point of incorporeality. It was like staying at the ZNT Hospital in a quiet room amidst the English countryside. He felt locked into his own head; entirely composed of mental images. Instead of getting some rest he progressed through interminable patterns of chaos.

The nightmare continued: He tumbled again out of the City sky; even reliving the obscure events of another lost year. This time he was entirely in the dark and alone, understanding every moment, yet detached, as if sitting in a theatre or cinema - an old London fleapit of the mind - to watch those terrible events played out.

Everything ran through his mind’s eye, across a mental screen. Rather than being the participant or victim he was just a spectator; he was telling his own story. But where exactly was he situated? Clive began to doubt that he was simply beginning to drift into sleep, however uncomfortably. He had the sense of being very distant, more deeply unconscious, even hallucinating or in a coma. Was he delusional as a consequence of trauma?

At some point he heard men shouting, pushing him around, shaking his shoulders and screaming into his face; although he couldn’t recognise them. He was unable to distinguish or identity any of the participants. After a while there was a ringing in his head, tuning in and out, splitting him in two.

Clive was desperate to wake, to find out who was around, and what exactly was happening. As if stranded at the bottom of a deep pool of heavy unconsciousness, held under a dead salty sea - making out vague shapes, voices and actions - he couldn’t return to the surface: He could see glimmers of light and movement, on a surface many fathoms above him, which aroused a flicker of interest.

But he was unable to free himself from that stagnant tank. He couldn’t shake himself, in fact could barely move a limb in the struggle. His body and will were weaker than his opponents.

This felt close to drowning. He felt as if all the blood was gushing towards his head - he could feel unbearable pressure, behind his eyes and around the skull - as if he was turned upside down. He felt as if somebody was striking his face, slapping him about, even pulling his hair. Then the empty pool was suddenly filled with water, running water, heavy and strong, so that it was choking him. It was then a struggle to breathe: the blood was heavy, like a fist into the brain, while the water - distantly icy - was gushing over his face, like a sheet of rippled ice over his vision, through his mouth and nose, partly into his lungs. He was convulsed with choking, as if some heavy guy was sitting on his chest, so he couldn’t breathe any more. Somehow the icy water was transformed into searing fire in his chest and lungs. His heart burst like a paper bag filled with hot blood.

The guy was shouting at him: “Where is your dossier Pitt?! Where is your dossier?!” Clive had the strange perspective of seeing an upside down face; the world was upside down again.

There it was; the large round face of Viktor Di Visu, like a cynical infant. As described, Viktor resembled the devil with a point of beard at the very end of his chin. He wore a neat pony-tail at the back, a blood-diamond stud in one ear, above a lovely black cashmere rolled-neck sweater, which clung to every ripple of designer muscle. The sleeves were pushed elegantly a few centimetres up firm forearms, as if he was doing something interesting but slightly messy. A waft of exquisite Di Visu’s new Blades pour Homme fragrance almost masked the hot fetid air within Doug’s boxed, windowless spare room, which was filling up with fear and stress like a slave ship in a storm. Pitt noted Viktor’s presence and was aware of his background presence, waiting and scowling, orchestrating.

“Give us the information,” echoed a heavy voice. “Give us the information you son of a bitch!”

“He can’t speak. You dumb fuck. Don’t you see? Allow the bastard time to speak!”

“Give back the information that does not belong to you. Where have you stored that? Do you hear us, where are you storing our data, Mr Pitt?”

“We are going to kill you now, Pitt, if you do not speak.”

He felt the world swivel, as blood and water surged with gravity. His vision was obscured as sopping hair streaked over his eyes. His bursting lungs apparently gasped and spluttered water as he lurched for oxygen. Then he felt himself dropped onto the stone floor, crushing the side of his head; except he was not horizontal, he realised, he’d been heaved up against the wall, so that his ribs were cracking.

“He doesn’t understand you, fuckers. Can’t you see what’s happening?” Vi Visu challenged.

“Where is it Pitt? Do you want more of this? Then you tell us immediately!”

“There’s no point to this. He isn’t going to say anything.”

“We’ll come back again tomorrow. Give us another day, Viktor.”

“Get out of here all of you. Leave us alone. We must eliminate him now. Don’t you see that you are ruining his looks?” came the voice of Di Visu. “I’m tired of these ugly scenes. Don’t you realise I am creative? Artists don’t like such ugliness. This is disgusting for me to even look at. This is a beautiful guy. Give this bitch something to loosen up his arse,” Di Visu said. “Then go away, will you? Let me get something pleasurable out of this!”

There was a clearing of the space. Then Clive felt himself being hoisted under the arms, pulled back across the room by his hair. He was not sensible enough to feel the full pain such an action should have provoked. Somebody had their hand in his mouth after that, forcing his jaws apart, before he was thrown down to the ground again. There was something inside his mouth that he was forced to swallow, as this was the only method to get rid.

Di Visu was stood biting at the back of his neck, focused as intently as a mating dog. Clive had the sensation of elegant yet forceful hands painfully in the small of his back. He was too physically weak and disorientated to resist. After which he felt himself dropping back down, descending into the dark, until he was no longer conscious, far away from any point of light. For hours and hours he was content to fall into a state of unconsciousness, this dreamless sleep.