The Killer (17 page)

As McQuillan pushed his face once more into Darren’s, he spat, ‘Remember laddie, first your fingers, then your wrists - then I might need a rest.
Still, that should allow you to prepare for the next part, because then it’ll be time for me to take one of your eyes.’

He paused a while, just watching McCann staring at him.
This mental torture was almost as rewarding as the physical pain he was about to administer and it even made the loss of his eye seem worth it.
Well, nearly.
‘You don’t have much to say for yourself, do you laddie?’ he goaded.

‘I’m not fucking telling you anything you crazy mad bastard,’ screamed Darren, finally finding his voice.

‘Hey, that’s all right McCann.
No worries.
There’s nothing you could tell me anyway, because there’s nothing I want to know.
The only thing I want is to break you, one little bit at a time - until you’re fucking well dead,’ laughed the ex R.U.C. man as he placed the clenched, captive hand on the desk in front of him and firmly prised it open, spreading the fingers.

It was true; Darren knew it.
This wasn’t an interrogation.
This was revenge, pure and simple and, strangely, that realisation calmed him.
He’d been on borrowed time long enough.
The whole exile to Spain and then the hesitation with Ernesto, all of it letting him know his days were numbered.
He should have listened to the inner warnings before now and got out while he could, and now it was too late.
His end was to come at the hands of a madman and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
Finally the defiance he’d been seeking filled his face and he stared up at the man.
He made one last effort to remove his hand from McQuillan’s grasp, but it was useless.
Resigned to his fate, he sat and waited for the inevitable.

McQuillan noticed the change in the man’s demeanour, and it was disappointing.
This fear stage was supposed to go on longer – that was the routine.
Why was this man suddenly ruining his perfect plan?
The next stage was supposed to be savoured as he raised the hammer, slowly, holding it above the hand for long seconds.
Instead, anger overtook him and he smashed the hammer down quickly, aiming for the thumb, but the blow glancing off the little finger.

Darren felt some small bones snap, but he gritted his teeth against the pain and continued to stare without uttering a sound.
He saw the tendons rise on McQuillan’s neck, his one eye appearing to turn red with rage.
‘No!’ Eddie finally screamed.
‘It should be the thumb first.
It’s always the thumb first.
Now I have to go backwards.
Don’t you see?
You’ve made me go backwards.’

Darren had no idea what the man was babbling about, but he knew it wasn’t good.
He braced himself for another blow of the hammer, pretty sure that the next aim would be more effective, but McQuillan was still shouting out incoherent nonsense.
‘It hasn’t even gone right.
See?
It’s not gone.’

What it was that hadn’t gone became clear to Darren just a second later as McQuillan grabbed the little finger and twisted it viciously to complete the job half-started by his hammer.
This time Darren could not stay quiet, the sound of grinding bones drowned out by his deep groan of pain.
Broken bones were nothing new, but this was a sickening pain and the room spun as unconsciousness threatened for a second.
‘Oh, God help me, I’ll never get through this,’ he thought.
Then, as his focus returned, the hammer came down again, smashing across his knuckles as the whole hand collapsed and Darren passed out.

The Intrusion

When Darren came round again he wasn’t sure where he was until the pain from his hand brought a fierce reminder.
McQuillan was leaning against the wall, grinning and, as his victim came to, he approached again, hammer held high.

‘Stop this at once, you bloody animal!’
The loud, commanding voice came through the small grill in the cell door and McQuillan froze, his hammer in mid-air, as
he
heard the key grating in the lock.
The door flew open and a scarlet-faced man entered followed by two unknown guards, battens held across their chests.
Kenny Allen was behind them, key in hand, the look on his face showing quite clearly that he had no idea what he was supposed to do next.
The young officer’s glance flew to McQuillan, then at the red faced man and finally at the key, as if it bore all the responsibility for the position in which he had been placed.
He attempted to make himself invisible.

‘Put that hammer down!’ was the next, barked order from the red-faced man.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ demanded McQuillan at the top of his voice, the hammer waving wildly in his hand.
‘I gave strict orders no-one was to disturb me during this interrogation.’
He glared at his fellow guard then, and Kenny shrank back against the wall.

‘My name is Turner - and here is my I.D.
Look at it man.
Go on, look I said.
And this so-called interrogation of yours is finished.
It is terminated - do you bloody well hear me?’

McQuillan snatched the I.D.
 
and examined it in anger before throwing it to the floor.
He raised the hammer once more, but a well-aimed batten knocked it from his grasp.

‘Go on, get out of here I said, and get out now man,’ Turner ordered, his voice now more authoritarian than angry, a natural colour slowly returning to his face.

McQuillan looked around him wildly.
This was his domain, his prisoner, his fucking revenge and he wasn’t going anywhere.

‘Eddie,’ came the quiet voice from the shadows.
‘There’ll be another day, mate.’

Then Kenny Allen’s hand was on his arm and he felt himself being led from the room as he gave one last, crazed look in the direction of Darren McCann.
‘Cunt,’ he whispered under his breath.
‘I’ll have you yet.’

Turner swallowed hard as he watched them leave.
‘That intolerable little man,’ he tutted.
He loathed physical violence.
He absolutely abhorred it and considered for the umpteenth time that he really was in the wrong job.
Trouble was, he was good at it.

He made his way to the prisoner in the chair.
This man had said nothing since his arrival and he just looked at him blankly now, offering no resistance as he examined the damaged hand.
‘Get the doctor,’ he ordered one of the guards behind him, before turning his attention back to the prisoner.
‘I must say old man; this behaviour should never be tolerated in any of Her Majesty’s Prisons.
It’s simply not on.
I really do apologise.’

Darren stared back and said nothing.
He was struggling to form his thoughts through the intense pain of his hand.

‘Look old chap, I’ll have a medic take care of that, give you some pain-killers, then we can have a little chat.
Now how would that be?’
He fished around in his pocket for a moment and produced his trusty old Swiss Army penknife.
He bent low, hacking away with the short blade as he cut the sticky gaffer tape holding the prisoner down.

Darren stretched out his uninjured limbs, circling them to encourage the blood flow, but he remained silent.
Turner seemed content with that for the moment and leaned against the wall, watching.
The guard came back with the doctor who strapped the hand, administered pills and departed with such speed and efficiency, it was clearly a well-practiced routine.
At a glance from their boss, the guards went out into the corridor and closed the door leaving the two men alone in the tiny cell.

Darren bit down on his good hand, trying to take some pain away from the other.
He hoped those pills would kick in quickly.
The strapping had helped but the throbbing continued and he didn’t want to be distracted.
His position had changed, though he doubted it was for the better.
One thing was clear, this man was…‘English,’ he said, finally breaking the silence.

‘What gave me away, old boy?’
Turner smiled at him.
When Darren didn’t reply, he continued.
‘Yes, English.
Apologies for the awfully bad form.
I really should introduce myself.
The name is Turner, Anthony Turner and I work for the British Government as a - well that’s not important now.
And you are Darren, I believe, or do you prefer Butch?
How about Mr. Butcher?
Which is it to be?’

Darren slowly lifted his head and stared at the man.
‘What’s it to you?’

‘Well, if we’re to have a chat, we ought to be on civil terms, don’t you think?’

‘I’ve nothing to say to you, Englishman.’

‘But I’m only here to help, you know.
Seems I’ve helped already, wouldn’t you say?’ offered Turner, the smile still on his lips.

Darren’s voice remained low as he spat, ‘If you really want to help me, get the fuck out of my country.
Leave Ireland for the Irish - you fucking British bastard.’

‘Tut, tut, tut, there really is no need for that sort of language old chap,’ replied Turner.
‘I genuinely am here to help you know.’

‘So, what the fuck do you want from me?
You want me to grass - and inform on the boys do you?’ mocked Darren.

‘Actually - yes old boy, I do - that’s exactly what I want to start with,’ sighed Turner, ignoring the mocking tone.

The matter-of-fact reply caught him off guard and Darren heard himself laugh before controlling his voice once more.
‘Well piss on you.
Go and fuck yourself.
Leave me alone you fucking British bastard.’

Turner closed his eyes and shook his head slowly before looking back at him benignly.
‘Okay, for now I’m going to ignore the bad language.
I used a little myself when I arrived, for which I apologise, and I know you’ve had a bad few days, Mr. Butcher.’

‘Darren.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I prefer Darren.’

‘Ah, yes, Darren it is then,’ Turner agreed.
‘Much better, I must admit.
Butcher has all sorts of nasty connotations, doesn’t it?
Look here old chap, to ask the British to leave Northern Ireland is simply unrealistic.
It’ll never happen you see.’

‘One day,’ Darren assured him.

‘Ah well, we’ll agree to disagree on that one, then.
Anyway, it seems to me you’re more concerned with the Spanish these days.
That was your kill, wasn’t it, that poor devil they found yesterday in the bushes with his throat cut?’

Darren looked at him, but said nothing.
He wasn’t sure where this guy was getting his information, but it was unsettling.

‘Don’t worry, old boy.
It looks as if the Spanish police are treating it as a robbery, and it’s certainly none of our business.
It just seemed a little strange to me.
I thought you’d joined the I.R.A
.
to avenge your mother’s death and I don’t really see what the poor old Spanish have done to you.’

At this Darren couldn’t avoid the small gasp that escaped his lips but Turner didn’t seem to pay it any attention, simply continuing in a gentle voice.
‘I do wish you would consider answering me old bean.
I guarantee that if you act in a more civil manner it really will be of great benefit to you - in the long run.
Tell you what, how about we have a nice cup of tea?’

What the f…?
This was surreal.
Here he was, sitting in a torture chamber and this English cunt thought it was a good time for a cup of tea?
He watched in disbelief as the man walked to the door and asked the guards to bring the drinks.
He couldn’t hear the reply but then Turner looked back in his direction.
‘Won’t be a mo,’ he said.
‘Looks like there’s no room service.’
And then he left.

Darren stared after him.
This guy couldn’t be for real, yet he’d seen for himself how quickly he’d dispatched McQuillan and he assumed he must have considerable authority to even get in here in the first place.
His intelligence was obviously good and he wondered just how long the British government had been watching him.
Shit, this wasn’t good.
It wasn’t good at all.
Right now Darren figured he’d rather be facing McQuillan again.
At least you knew where you were with a murdering psychopath.

When the man reappeared a few moments later with two steaming mugs of tea, Darren raised his head slowly.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he asked.