A steel arrowhead poked out the front of his knee, its shaft extending behind. The pain had been excruciating at first, then ebbed, and was now pounding again. He guessed some ligament had been severed. His throat clawed at him like a wild cat. He’d had not a drop of water since morning. For the thousandth time he cursed himself for venturing onto the beach. Once he’d been brought to ground he’d been helpless. He’d waved the knife around but there was an arrow aimed at his throat, so he surrendered, was bound with plastic strips, first his legs, then his arms behind his back. His assailant had said nothing. He was dragged across the sand and bundled in a vehicle under a tarp. It seemed they drove for half an hour at least before he was again dragged out under dark grey sky, the bush somewhere, gagged, rolled down into an earthen pit.
He tried to talk, to plead but his words died in the gag. Why was this happening? Was it money?
His captor squatted on the edge of the pit and spoke for the first time, clearly and calm.
‘I know you hope the police are going to find you in time. They’re not. They’re busy looking for a connection between you and bikies and Herr Schaffer. You know what it’s like to grow up without a father?’
Osterlund tried to speak, to ask him what he wanted but what wasn’t muffled was obliterated as thunder rumbled, very powerful, closer than before.
‘God is angry tonight. And why wouldn’t he be? One of his children held down, sliced apart with a chainsaw, butchered. A man’s heart, his lips, his eyes, wrapped tight in glossy pussy and large tits.’
So that was it. Hamburg. He should have listened to Schaffer, when was it, over a year ago, that Klaus had been killed? For six months or so he’d been on alert but he had become complacent. Klaus had numerous enemies. A thin smile seemed to play on his captor’s lips.
‘You understand, I see. Your money can’t save you.’
The man turned away, extended his arms to the sky and howled. Literally, howled like a wild dog. To fight the pain in his knee Osterlund bit into his gag, but he could not take his eyes from his captor who had begun to perform some grotesque dance, throwing handfuls of sand in the air. He stomped, he laughed and exhorted into the thunder, mumbling words, most unintelligible down in the pit but one Osterlund caught clearly: ‘Wallen.’
And then it was over. His captor stood panting looking down on him.
‘You know the expression, to be shat on from a great height? That’s what God does to us humans. And tonight, I am your god.’
Osterlund tensed for a bullet, or another arrow. His tormentor loosed his belt, dropped his shorts and squatted over the pit. A huge clap of thunder sounded overhead simultaneous to a white sword of lighting, slicing, bleaching the night.
‘Eat shit and die!’ the man screamed down at him.
Osterlund edged as far to the other side of the pit as he could. Then the man had disappeared from view. Something was being dragged over his head blotting out what little light there was, centimetre by centimetre.