“So, I’m eleven years old and my parents are downstairs watching Star Trek.”
“The Next Generation?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Anyway, I sneak into their room and make my way over to this big old dressing table where my father used to keep his socks and, as quietly as I can, I pull open the top drawer and begin rummaging around. It takes me a few nervous seconds of scrambling around in the dark before I feel it, right at the back. A Playboy. I’d seen my father looking at it earlier that day and I just had to get my hands on it. Of course nowadays I wouldn’t even bat an eyelid, but to a thirteen-year-old boy in the throes of puberty, it was like hitting the jackpot, hitting pay dirt. Anyway, so I get my hands on this ‘jazz mag’, right, and I sneak back to my room to check it out. Now I don’t know whether my father had some sixth sense or what, but within minutes he bursts into the room and busts me ogling this full spread of Miss November and he goes ballistic. He snatches the magazine out of my hands and starts giving me this big lecture about how I’m too young to be looking at such things and how I should be ashamed of myself because women are not objects, which is a foolish point to make because it was his magazine, so I told him: ‘Father, you bought this magazine, not me!’”
The storyteller took a deep breath and then exhaled with a knowing shake of his head. “Of course I knew the moment I said it I’d gone too far. You could see the sparks in his eyes flaming up. Sure enough, within seconds my father had slid off his belt, folded it in half and proceeded to give me five of the hardest slaps on the ass I’ve ever had. My cheeks were burning for hours. Anyway, my point is that corporal punishment is no way to treat your own child, and I never forgave him for it. I was his own blood, for Christ’s sake. It’s just heartless, mean. It’s got no place in a modern society. Of course you have to teach your children the difference between right and wrong, but there are other ways of doing it without getting violent which are just as effective.”
“OK. So how do you maintain discipline? For me shouting works. Put the fear of God into them.”
The storyteller shook his head in disagreement. “No, there’s a better way. We use the naughty step method.”
“The naughty step?”
“Yeah, the naughty step. You telling me you’ve never heard of the naughty step? Everyone’s heard of the naughty step.”
“Well I haven’t.”
The storyteller looked dumbfounded, but with a disbelieving sigh he proceeded to explain. “OK, when your child does something wrong you give them a warning not to do it again, and if they do, then you place them in a designated area, like on a step or a chair, and that becomes your naughty step. Then you tell them they’ll have to stay there for, let’s say, five minutes. Then, when the time’s up, you go back to them and ask for an apology. If they give you one then you give them a hug, say that’s very grown up of you and, tada, they’ve learnt their lesson. If not then they have to stay there for another five minutes. And you keep doing it until they finally crack.”
“And what if they don’t want to stay on the naughty step?”
“Then you keep placing them back on the step and start the timer again. It’s like breaking a horse in the old west. Repetition. You keep doing it until they apologise.”
“And that works?”
“Oh, sure. Eventually. Think of it like a battle of wills. You may have to put them back on that step twenty or thirty times, if your child’s really unruly, but if you stick to the process it becomes like second nature to them. The child realises that you’re the boss, and if they don’t want to end up on the naughty step then they better do as they’re told. And it’s all done without ever having to lay a hand on the ones you love. No violence, and you’re a dad of the modern age… Perfect.”
“I like that. I’m sold. Next time my boy plays up I’m going to try it. Yeah, the naughty step.”
“Of course, not all kids are redeemable,” the storyteller said gruffly as he gazed towards to the fragile-looking thirteen-year-old boy lying at his feet, tears still streaming from his puffy red eyes and down his cheeks, and over the silver duct tape wound tightly around his mouth. “Not these ones, for sure.”
Both men now looked down the rows of brown wooden pews standing in the main hall of the church, dozens of people crowding its cold stone floor, each one of them hogtied. The sounds of quiet whimpering and the terror in each of their wide eyes had absolutely no effect on their captors.
“Are you sure that’s all of them?”
“Yep, all sixty-eight. The whole commune.”
“Good, then let’s finish up.”
Both men made their way to the church entrance and outside onto the village’s main dirt street and into the refreshingly cold night air. Parked a few metres away were four black Range Rovers surrounded by a group of men in full camouflage fatigues, all armed with hefty FN P90 submachine guns.
They had already reached the men when a blue Porsche Cayenne pulled up next to the nearest Range Rover and from the passenger side Hans Bauer, wearing an expensive grey Armani suit, exited the vehicle and slowly made his way over to join them.
Noting the new arrival, the storyteller and his colleague moved back to either side of the church entrance and pushed the heavy set of wooden double doors shut, reducing the moans and terrified screams to nothing more than muffled background noise.
“Any problems, Hector?” Bauer asked, looking up at the church steeple.
“A few,” Hector replied, flipping his finger towards two black ziplock body bags by the tires of the furthest Range Rover. “A few of the parents tried to stop us with shotguns, but it was taken care of.”
Bauer looked over at the bags. “Take them to the crematorium and have them burnt. And retrieve the spent bullets once they’re done.”
“Of course, sir. I’ll see to it.”
Bauer began scanning the area until he saw the body of a man propped up next to the church’s left wall; he had dark skin and wore torn jeans and a black Southern Comfort T-shirt. “Is that the frame?” he asked, and Hector replied with a nod.
“He’s a local cartel man, low level. We grabbed him off the streets last night and one of the parents’ shotguns was used on him. It’ll look like a either a drug vendetta or a cartel warning. Whatever conclusion the authorities reach it’ll be anything but us.”
Bauer was now nodding his head. “Good, because in the next few hours the whole world is going to hell. Every government and intelligence agency in the western hemisphere will be out for blood and grasping at any leads they can find. Any and all ties that could link to us must be severed, and with Ferreira and his little experiments gone we remain insulated.”
Hector was nodding sternly as Bauer glanced over at the locked church.
“Have you used enough gasoline?”
“More than enough, sir, and those stone walls will heat up and act like a pizza oven. There won’t be much left.”
Bauer stared up at the church steeple once more and then he began to make his way back to the Porsche, glancing back as he did so. “I want men here until it’s all over. I don’t want anyone making a miraculous escape, understood?”
“Yes, sir. Until the end.” Hector watched as Bauer pulled open the car door, whereupon he paused. “And I want them burnt to a crisp. No evidence except for dental records.”
“Yes, sir,” Hector replied again, dutifully, and he continued to watch as Bauer ducked into the car only to reappear again a few moments later.
“Well… what are you waiting for?”
Hector swivelled on his heels and headed back to the church entrance and opened one of the doors just a crack. He reached into his top pocket and retrieved a red-tipped match which he cracked into life on the tip of his thumbnail. With that he flicked the lit match inside and watched the line of petrol ignite and begin quickly travelling in a straight line towards the sixty-eight children, mothers and fathers all writhing in abject terror as their flaming harbinger of doom approached.
Hector took a final look and then slammed the door shut again and briskly made his way down the church steps and onto the main street. He walked towards the others as behind him the screams began to morph from terror into ones of scalding pain.
Within a minute most of the shrieking had stopped and had been replaced by the sound of roaring flames. As one stained-glass window blew outwards, sending a thick black torrent of smoke into the night air and upwards to the glittering stars above, Hector ordered all the men but two to take off. He took one final look at the pyre of flames twisting upwards into the sky and then got into the last jeep and wound down the window, sniffing the air. “Smells like roast beef,” he said without any hint of emotion or care, before turning his attention to the other occupants. “I’m hungry. You boys fancy some dinner?”