CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 

IT WAS RAINING again.

He’d come around to the sensation of water pattering against his face. For a moment, he’d forgotten where he was, but then he’d surfaced through the delirium, pushing his way up through the darkness and dizziness, and it had all come back to him in a sudden, gut-wrenching rush: the pain, the horror, the hopelessness.

He opened his mouth and allowed some of the dirty rainwater to trickle down the back of his throat. The water in the storm drain was up to his calves now, and he didn’t have the energy to try to drag himself up any more. His feet were completely numb, and his damaged wrists were bearing all of his weight. The pain had become so complete, so ubiquitous, that it was now a comfort, and he could no longer remember what it was like not to feel it. That pain, that sharp, raw pain, was the only thing that told him he was still alive.

He tried calling out again, trying to raise his voice enough to be heard, but even that was betraying him now, and all that came out was a pathetic sob.

He knew he was dead. His captor wasn’t coming back. All that was left was the water and the rats. He cursed his body for hanging on so long. Anything now would be relief. All he wanted was for it all to stop. He almost wished the man would return, and see through his dreadful promise. At least it would be over.

He wondered what he’d done to deserve this. Oh, there’d been plenty of backhanders and under-the-table deals, but they were all just part of the game, weren’t they? That’s how it worked, that’s what kept the world turning. Sometimes you had to grease the wheels. He’d only done what was necessary, and even then, it was always for the greater good. He honestly believed that. He’d helped people all his life, and now this was his reward. An inglorious death, chained up in a storm drain amongst the shit and the rats, just like all the other detritus. This was the thanks he got.

He laughed, but stopped when the pain erupted right down the left-hand side of his body. He wondered what would get him first: the rising water or the rats. He hoped for the former. At least that way, he wouldn’t know when the filthy critters started eating him.

A car passed overhead, displacing a puddle of standing water that sloshed down through the drain in a wave, crashing over the back of his dangling head. He willed the storm on, as if his swirling anger and his desperation were fuel, driving it deeper into the city, urging the rain to keep falling. All he could think about now was the water, and how it would consume him. Then, finally, he might be able to rest.