Chapter 111
London, England, 1984
Minutes, hours, days, could no longer be sorted by a mind that drifted in and out of reality. Sunlight and darkness came and went without Stewart Sheppard being aware of the difference. He fought the drugged sleep terrified he would come awake still held in the grip of a nightmare.
One morning they discovered him huddled under his cot sobbing, his nose dripping and urine pooled beneath him. Blood was oozing from wounds on his arms; he’d taken to digging out tiny chunks of his flesh with his fingernails.
“Fuckin’ drugs!” Martin yelled as he struggled to drag the prisoner from his self-imposed confinement. “Help me!” he barked at a shocked Rory Hanlon. “Lift the bed off him!”
As they forced him back on top of it and into restraints, Martin decided. “Gotta stop the damn drugs, you got enough film.”
Hanlon admitted. “Never played much with drugs. They can be fucking bad news.”
~~~
With the proper permits posted, machinery, ladders and lumber in such abundance, honest construction activity went on all week long. Even cruising Bobbies paid no particular attention. Work clothes and hard hats serving as a perfect disguise, Jason conversed comfortably now with his weekend companions as they picked their way through the site.
“Sure, the hero returns,” Rory Hanlon chuckled as he affectionately slapped the boy’s butt. “How was the match?”
“Great.” Four days and three nights of normal activity had erased the boredom from the teen face. “Would have been better if I was on the field. But we had fun.”
“Stopped off to see the crash.” One of his companions said.
And Jason whistled. “Damn mess. Already calling it a terrorist bombing…” He paused as if wondering that he’d said the wrong thing.
David Martin answered. “Don’t let that floor yah, every plane that comes down, engine trouble or not, they claim some bloke’s put a bomb in.”
“Guess who I saw?” Jason didn’t want to think about who might have murdered a hundred some odd people. “Megan O’Donnell. You know her, Davy?”
“She didn’t see you?”
“Nah, she was going in the hotel dining room, we went in the bar. I probably wouldn’t have noticed her except for Seamus—you can’t miss him.” Jason grinned. “Must be strange for those two, already having the same last name.”
“Most likely over here covering the plane crash,” Martin decided. “She’d be what drew Seamus across the water.”
Hanlon was donning coveralls as he stopped to offer, “Come on, lad. Wife and kid left for the States this morning. Got a spanking new VCR; you can help me tote it. We’ll pick yah up some cassettes on the way back.”
~~~
Later that day, Jason complained, “Never drink tea. Don’t like tea.”
“So, try it anyway,” was a sharp order causing Jason to wonder what was apparently upsetting Martin. The man had been acting strange ever since they’d returned with the stuff from Hanlon’s place.
He said, “I’ll have a beer.”
But Rory Hanlon snickered, “Don’t fracture the bloke, lad, drink the tea, your new papa made it himself.” Then he offered, “You want a beer? I’ll get ya a beer.”
Thinking Davy was only being a pest, like he was sometimes. His big brother moods reminded the boy of RJ. Jason gulped the coppery liquid and shoved away the empty cup with a grimace at Martin. “Happy?” Stupid, he thought, what does he care what I drink?
Hanlon had returned with the beer. He was standing over him uncorking the bottle but his features were odd, they seemed to be liquefied? narrowing? spreading out? He reached for the beer but couldn’t catch the bottle. He staggered to his feet and sobbed in fear, “Davy?”
Martin shoved Hanlon aside and caught the limp body. “One hour! Damn! That’s all you get and I’m in the cell the whole time.”
“No problem, lad.” Hanlon didn’t ridicule the younger man but offered, “Help you tote him?”
“Go set up. I’ll manage him. Let’s just get this fuckin’ shit over with.”
As David Martin lay the drugged youth out on the raised gurney that had been added to the cell, he had to keep reminding himself, this was necessary. Devlin said it was a necessary part of the game. In a hurry to get it over with, he quickly undressed Jason.
“Leave the panties on,” Hanlon instructed over the intercom, “makes him look more like a nipper.” Martin rigged up the plastic tubing, hung the plastic bottles, and continued to assure himself, they were not harming the youth. He won’t know what happened right away. Before we send him home, I’ll do the explaining myself and maybe we’ll even laugh about it.
He inserted the catheter and the kidneys immediately voided so yellow fluid colored the clear plastic bag. Dressed in camouflage gear like Martin had donned, the newcomers stalked into the cell. Hanlon continued to set the stage with barked instructions that added intensity to the plot while stilling the humor the two rather short, stocky, men had been expressing. Now, in English, corrupted by thick Semitic accents, they began discussing the prisoner on the gurney. “I hadn’t thought the youth would be so attractive?”
“What’s his looks got to do with this?”
“Christ!” Hanlon yelped into the speaker. “Yah can’t keep the fuckin’ conversation so pure. You gotta pretend like that piece of meat is nothing but a commodity at an auction. Argue! Bargain! Put your paws on the kid; we’re making an X-rated movie not a nursery tale.”
“Keep your hands from touching him.” Martin’s own hand blocked the Indian’s. “Fake it!”
“That’s better. Davy, turn him a bit, more this way—good. Okay we’re taping again. Hold it! I don’t wanna do too much cutting. Hang in there with that pose a minute.”
And Martin yelled back at Hanlon, “A minutes about all you got left.”
~~~
Jason Connors came slowly awake. Groggily he rolled over, saw David Martin beside his bed and groaned, “What happened?”
“You blacked out. Scared the shit out of us. You been sick lately?”
“At the academy,” he suddenly remembered. “I starved myself—shit my arm stings?”
“I gave you a shot of Compazine,” Martin said. “Christ you were puking all over. Maybe something you ate this weekend?”
Coming fully awake, Jason felt other sensations that he didn’t admit too. When he rubbed his hand across his groin, realized his clothing was mostly gone, he snapped, “Why’d you take my jeans off?”
“I told yah, you had vomit all over you.” Martin snorted, “Maybe you caught a bug. You still sick in the morning we’ll call a doctor in.”
Jason’s eyes lock on a patch of blistered paint on the ceiling. His throat and nostrils burned and he could smell the stink of left over vomit. He had definitely been puking, he found a bit of reassurance in that. Still, leery, he mumbled, “Dave? You’d never do the same crap to me that you did to Stew?”
“What gave you that stupid idea?”
“I feel awful weird?”
“Probably the medicine, hell I ain’t no doctor, I might of given you too much. Won’t hurt ya none; you’ll sleep it off. Now put those crazy ideas out of your head. I wouldn’t abuse you nor would I let anyone else.”
“I went to the viewing room,” he admitted. “The cell was empty. Where’s Stew?”
“Damn!” Martin was rising as he barked, “How many times I gotta tell you, the cell’s only a prop. We don’t keep the ass there. A couple days, when you’re feeling better, you can go play cards with him,” was followed by a quick laugh.
“Now go back to sleep.” He tossed a quilt over the boy as he threatened, “Or I’ll give ya another shot-in your ass.”
~~~
Leaving Jason, Martin made his way to the Englishman’s prison. Donning the required uniform, he stepped into the small room. Stewart Sheppard was recovering. As the door came open he bolted upright into the straps that held him then fell back. Even though they were always masked, he has picked up on certain mannerisms that he associated with each of his captors.
“Feeling some better?”
“Just chipper old sport.” Then wisely, Stewart submerged the nasty ring in his tone as he said, “These straps? They’re a blasted nuisance and uncomfortable as hell.”
“Suppose,” Martin agreed, “I turn you loose? No more trying to peel your hide?”
“That wasn’t intentional, believe it. And the results are far too uncomfortable for a repeated attempt.”
“You want something for the pain?” Martin undid the restraints.
“Thank you, but no, not even a headache powder.” Sheppard groaned. Then as Martin started for the door he halted him with the plea, “Would it be in good form to ask another favor?”
“Ask?”
“Long as your here, could I make use of the toilet? The other chaps give the impression they’re not beneath drowning me in the bowl.”
“They’ve no love for the English.” Martin said as he made a motion for the man to follow.
Sore and stiff from the long hours of confinement, Sheppard was grateful for the man’s patient wait as he stumbled and righted himself. The simple act of not shoving him was a kindness. Still, as he obediently left the door open, he complained, “Not even a window I can crawl through. It seems bloody obscene to watch a man piss.” For which Martin answered with a sharp laugh but stepped back from the open toilet door.
As the Englishman came out drying his hands, he asked, “What did you have me on? My tongue I could use for a file.”
Ignoring the question, Martin offered, “Think your belly can hold something down?”
“Be only too willing to try.” This wealthy young male was rapidly learning gratitude for simple things; the pleasure in being able to move freely without ducking a blow; to talk with another human. He was desperate to keep this conversation alive. To keep this man talking to him since he was the only one who did. “Like to see a human face.” He grinned pointing to the mask.
“Bet you would. And tag a few names? Forget it and you’ll live longer.”
“Of course, I was joking.” He rubbed at the stubble on his chin as he worried out loud, “It’s hell not knowing what happened to the others. Colleen?” was spoken in a near whisper that grew into the accusation, “Jas and Dee are only youngsters.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Martin answered. “We didn’t touch your lady love. We had you out of there long before the girls returned. The Yank? Hell he’s worth more alive than you are. Park it,” he ordered. He spoke to another without using a name. “Rustle up some nice thick mush. Won’t taste great but it should stick in his gut.”