The Interrogator

by J J Cooper

  The passion was palpable and the conversation short in the nondescript bar. Like a virgin teenager on a promise, he had taken up the offer of further drinks at her house. In the cab the silence was electric. She had gently stroked her nails across his thigh during the ten-minute ride. Blind to any warning signs, he had paid the fare and followed her into the house. They shared a hungry kiss as soon as the door hit the jamb. She told him what she wanted as she led him by the hand to the bedroom. She wanted to role-play. She as the victim and he as the intruder. That's the way I like it, she'd said. Ignore my screams, don't pay attention if I plead with you to stop, I need to be taken from behind like a whore, I'm desperate. My wimp husband can't get it up. Give it to me hard. There was nothing Jay wouldn't have done to satisfy the need to be with her. A mistake that had clearly come back to haunt him.

  A rough hand brushed against Jay's exposed rear. 'This is a similar position to what he had you in, babe. Isn't it?'

  Jay tightened, the humiliation momentarily forgotten. He held his breath.

  'Minus the chair. Handcuffs are the same though,' she said.

  Two rough hands grabbed his behind. A garbled scream escaped his cracked lips. His brain begged his body to move. Tears ran down his face like a slowly released tap.

  'OK babe, start up your toy,' Primrose said.

  He heard the burring of a small motor, like the gentle buzz of a vibrator. God no. Please no, he begged. No words came out. The rough hand slapped him hard on the rear. He vomited what small amount of fluid was left in him. His knees wouldn't, couldn't, move. With every ounce of energy left, he lifted his head and roared.

  The buzzing stopped. The laughter recommenced. He hadn't been violated.

  'Got you a good one there,' Primrose said.

  Jay didn't respond, couldn't respond. His heart beat hard against his chest. Quick, shallow breaths grabbed at oxygen. He wanted to curl up in a corner and cry. Training wasn't supposed to be like this. But he knew it wasn't training. This was too much fun for Primrose. The sadistic little bastard will pay for this, he vowed.

  Metal scraped concrete behind Jay and he heard whispering. Someone grabbed his arms and lifted so that his shoulders were fully extended. The handcuffs pushed high on his wrists. His hands slammed down onto a wooden table behind him and he felt the instant pressure through the bones on the back of his hands. He tried to push forward with his shoulders against the chair in order to slide his hands from the table. He managed to slide about an inch, but then the table was pushed toward him further and he realised that he'd lost ground. The twisting of his wrists was becoming unbearable and he pleaded to God to make it stop. The same God he'd never prayed to before.

  'Now we play for keeps,' Primrose said.

  A fist pushed hard on Jay's fingers and the palm of his left hand. His wrists twisted further in the handcuffs and pushed harder on the wooden table. A sharp point rested against the palm of his left hand. Like a fountain pen pushed into skin.

  'You're going to be one of us, Jay, whether you like it or not,' Primrose said. 'Now I need you to stay still. This may tickle just a little. You might want to bite down on something. Start with your pride.'

  A thousand razors raced from his hand to his brain, a competition to register first. The pain hit before the hammer struck the nail in a second terrific blow. A shrill from deep in his throat liberated his voice and a stream of urine gushed down his thighs. His eyes blurred.

  The blackness fell upon him again.

  THREE

  Jay found himself propped against the corner of the interrogation room. The cold of the concrete wall relieved the pain in his back. The urine had dried and his legs felt stuck to the floor. The handcuff securing his left hand was fitted around a bandage. He moved his fingers and grimaced at the pain and the memory of a nail being driven through flesh and bone. His head felt like an anchor atop his shoulders. Neck muscles twitched from the weight as he raised his head to take in his surroundings.

  Primrose, in the opposite corner by the door, sat on a table. He swung his legs back and forth like a child on a playground swing. Jay's boots, watch, wallet and clothes lay next to Primrose.

  'Good to see you back with us, Jay. How are you feeling?' Primrose asked.

  Jay felt stiff and sick. He tensed and relaxed his muscles to get the blood flowing. He licked his swollen lips and swallowed hard through his scorched throat. 'Screw you.'

  'What, like you did my wife? Perhaps another time. We have business to attend to.' Primrose jumped down from the table, took two paces toward Jay and straightened out his camouflaged fatigues. The way he wore the uniform reeked of arrogance, Jay thought. Heavily starched collar ironed flat against his thin shoulders. Sleeves ironed flat and measured to sit precisely in the middle of his wafer-thin forearms. The shirt tucked in and held tight by a web belt that held his pants too high. Boots that didn't need polishing were thick with wax.

  Primrose dug into his pocket.

  Jay's chest tightened. He thought Primrose was reaching for his multi-tool. Not again. He couldn't deal with any more punishment.

  Primrose withdrew his copper comb and flicked it again through his thinning hair.

  'You're a sick little man,' Jay said.

  'In good health, actually. Better shape than you, in fact.' Primrose put the comb away. 'Ever heard of the term Sub Rosa?'

  'What?'

  'How's your Greek mythology? You're familiar with Eros, the god of love, aren't you? Maybe not.' Primrose made the motion of firing an arrow from a little bow. 'He bribed another god, Harpocrates, to keep quiet about his mother's secrets. Ironic, considering Harpocrates was the god of silence. Why would he need to be bribed?' Primrose shrugged. 'I digress. Cupid gave Harpocrates a rose, which henceforth became a symbol of confidentiality. It's still used to this day by many organisations around the world. Sub Rosa. Under the rose. In a nutshell, it means secrecy.' Primrose paused for effect. 'You're probably wondering why I am giving you this lesson.'

  Jay's resolve strengthened as the numbness dissipated. He continued to tense and release his muscles. 'Not really. More along the lines of how I'm going to kick your arse when I get out of this.'

  Primrose chuckled. 'We'll see.'

  'Why the hell am I here, Primrose? This is insane. What the fuck did you and your crazy bitch wife do to my hand?'

  A small vein popped out the side of Primrose's left temple. 'Patience, I'm getting to that.' He rolled his tongue over his thin lips. 'Besides, it was only a small nail. You should be thankful my wife was kind enough to bandage it. Nailing your hand to the table wasn't personal. On the other hand, pissing on you was.' Primrose's left thumb played with his wedding ring.

  He continued. 'Under the bandage, on the inside of your wrist, you will find a symbol, a rose tattoo to be exact.'

  Jay turned his attention to the bandage. Surely not, he reassured himself. That would be insane.

  'There'll be plenty of time later to check out my wife's handiwork. She's an excellent tattooist. Mind you, it did help that you stayed so still for it.' Primrose gave another chuckle.

  Jay recalled seeing only one tattoo on Catherine. The Star of David etched into her hip. It looked professionally done but somewhat aged. He thought an excellent tattooist would have many more. He put the thought aside and glared at Primrose. 'Are you fucking crazy?'

  'Maybe, but I do have an end in mind. Pay attention. Your skills as an intelligence professional and interrogator are highly attractive. I don't understand why you haven't accepted the big money overseas.'

  'Guess I like being tortured by freaks too much.'

  The grin evaporated. Primrose said, 'Let's just say it's part of your initiation.'

  'I'd like to withdraw my application to your little fraternity of psychopaths, thanks,' Jay retorted.

  More veins throbbed at Primrose's temples. His usually pale face reddened. He reached down into his pocket again. This time he withdrew the multi-tool. He flicked open a long thin blade. It shone under
the fluorescent light as he held it up for Jay to see. 'You think you're hurting now?' he said.

  Jay pulled his knees to his chest. Bravado had caught up with him. He tucked his head down and squeezed his legs in as tight as he could and waited. Nothing. He raised his head.

  Primrose closed his left fist around the blade, bit down on his lip and yanked the blood-soaked blade free. He clenched his wounded fist and crimson red trickled down to the cuffs of the fatigues. 'You and I are going to be blood brothers.'

  Jay knew what was coming. During a recent presentation at the Centre, a visiting psychological profiler mentioned that flicking blood across a new prisoner's face was common in some South American prisons. Symbolic for marking which gang claimed the new prisoner. Blood brothers.

  Primrose thrust the wounded hand forward. Jay blinked and jerked his head toward the wall. The blood missed its mark and splattered beside his head. He turned back toward Primrose and looked into the face of lunacy.

  'This isn't a game,' Primrose hissed. 'The beating was real. The nail was real. The tattoo is real. And the pain can get worse.' Primrose wiped a forearm across his mouth. He reached around to his back pocket and withdrew a handkerchief. 'I have a recording of you raping my wife.'

  Jay caught his breath. 'You know I didn't . . .'

  'Shut up!' Primrose heaved his chest and sucked in deep breaths. He wiped the blade and folded it back into the multi-tool. 'Listen to me carefully. You need to do exactly as I say or that recording goes straight to the cops. Comprende?' He placed the multi-tool back in his pocket and wrapped the handkerchief around his wounded hand.

  'You're a smart boy, Jay. Think of the ramifications. Here's how it works. You have an extra job now. You work for me. You will carry on your teaching duties here at the Centre as well as any extra odd jobs that I have. You will not tell anybody what you are doing. You will not be caught. I have plausible deniability. One wrong move and not only will you jeopardise your career, you will also be putting your life and your father's life in danger.'

  The statement hit like the hammer. 'What's my dad got to do with this?'

  'Thought that might spark your interest. Normally I would threaten your kids, wife or girlfriend. Problem is, the only relation you have is your dear old dad. Interesting life he's led. Like father, like son, hey? Though instead of Afghanistan and Iraq, he did Vietnam and retired to a civilian spy agency. National Secret Intelligence Service, I believe. And thankfully, now that he has semi-retired, he's an easier target for me.'

  'Leave him out of this.'

  'I have no choice, Jay. Like I said, I have an end in mind. Which reminds me, I've got things to do.' He turned toward the mirror. 'You can open up now, dear. We've finished.'

  'What do you want, Primrose? This is crazy. You can't leave me here, you son of a bitch.'

  The door opened and Jay caught a glimpse of Catherine. There was no smile from her and she had paled.

  Primrose turned back toward Jay. 'I hope you have thought up a good excuse to be here. Consider it as your first test. Think Sub Rosa, Jay.' He fished into his pocket, withdrew a small key and threw it into the middle of the room. 'Can't have people thinking you handcuffed yourself now, can we? I'll be in touch.' With that, Primrose shut the door.

  Jay wanted to shout but the key on the stained concrete drew his attention. He couldn't waste time waiting to be discovered in the lower depths of the Centre. And having to explain his condition. He couldn't risk going to the authorities just yet. Primrose was psychopathic and Jay had to warn his father.

  It was time to go.

  FOUR

  Jay crabbed over to the freedom key. He managed to grasp it with swollen fingers and, with difficulty, unlocked the handcuffs. His good hand braced against the floor and he rolled onto his knees. The adrenalin of escape forced his battered body to respond and he rose gingerly, staggering toward the table.

  After dressing with care, he lifted his wallet and flipped it open. No credit cards, just twenty dollars and some change – not unusual for a soldier with his job description. Before pulling on his boots, he made sure his only credit card was still in one of the inner soles. His G-Shock watch told him it was half-past four on Monday morning – almost six hours since his last drink.

  What had Primrose in store for his father? There was no way of knowing. But if it was along similar lines to what Jay had just endured, he could waste no time in getting to his dad first.

  He tried the doorknob. Locked, of course. Why had he bothered trying? He searched for a way out. Grey brick walls, concrete floor, massive two-way mirror and a locked door. He tilted his head back. Like all defence establishments, the contract for the building had gone to the cheapest bidder. This state of the art facility was no different.

  He climbed onto the table and dragged up the metal chair with his good hand. Standing on the chair, he pushed a piece of roof lining aside. An alarm sounded and he peered inside the roof. There was enough room. He threw the handcuffs into the roof space. Using his elbows and good hand, he lifted himself above the lining and propped his body over the crossbeams. Sweat dripped from his face and hands. His breathing quickened as he reached back down and pushed at the chair, knocking it from the table. He slid further back into the confined space and replaced the panel, leaving a small gap so he could observe the door. The siren continued to wail.

  He checked his G-Shock and waited. Sixteen minutes after the alarm was set off, it stopped. The security response team had arrived. He kept an eye on his watch. Eight minutes later the door of the interrogation room opened.

  'Nobody in here either,' one of the security guards said to his partner.

  Jay watched through the small gap and willed them to hurry, praying they would leave the door ajar when they left.

  The second security guard pointed to the far corner of the room. 'Is that blood?'

  'Yeah, probably. Nothing unusual in this place. I've seen blood, vomit and even human crap left in these rooms. The interrogators are pigs. They make a mess and leave it to the cleaners.'

  'What the hell do they do in here? I thought this was a training establishment.'

  'Relax. They use props from the local butcher to make it look as though they gave the bloke in the last session a real going-over. Some of the younger ones they get in here break real quick when they see the blood and smell the stench.'

  'What about the human crap?'

  'Like I said, the interrogators are pigs. Let's get out of here. Leave the door open so it won't smell as bad for the cleaners.'

  An exaggeration about the human crap, Jay thought. He'd never heard of an interrogator using it as a ploy. Even a sick bastard like Primrose. Although, after having just been urinated on, he wouldn't put it past him now. He mouthed a thank you as the security guards left and waited another few minutes, considering his options. Only two of the three levels of the Centre were visible from the outside. There were two entrances for the lower-level interrogation rooms. The first was via one flight of steps behind a concealed door on the main level, with entry gained using a palm scanner and pin number. The second entrance was via a tunnel through a nondescript shed on the outer perimeter of the facility. Again, that was equipped with a palm scanner that required pin number access. The second entrance allowed for discreet access to both prisoners and their interrogators. The guards would still be checking the building. It was time to move and the tunnel was his only option.

  He left the nightmare of the interrogation room and made his way across a narrow corridor to the men's toilet. The tap water eased his dry throat. Blood flowed into the sink as he washed his face and hair with his good hand. Checking his face in the mirror, he was relieved to find that it didn't look as bad as it felt. His broken nose did not appear so – a lifetime of rugby ensured it was forever crooked. The red lines through his green eyes were probably a result of the drugged scotch, not the beatings. The four small scratches on his cheeks could be explained to the curious.

  Jay looked at his banda
ged arm and then across to the G-Shock. Time was precious. He had to get back to his room and call his father. The bandage looked clean and his curiosity about the tattoo could wait.

  He jogged with heavy legs back through the tunnel. The hell he'd endured played in his mind. He wondered what Primrose wanted of him and why he had threatened his father. An unsettling fact was that he had slept with Catherine Primrose. Driven by his penis and not his brain. He clenched his jaw and shook his head in disgust, at Primrose and at himself. Primrose was going to pay.

  His eyes adjusted to the dim tunnel lights. He took the two flights of steps that led to a heavy door. No need for the palm scanner or pin number to exit.

  More dim lights greeted him from within the shed and cast shadows over various pieces of sporting equipment. He crossed to the steel sliding door and eased it open. A warm late spring breeze hit him and he breathed deeply, the fresh air reinvigorating his battered body. The security lights of the Centre illuminated the football field in front of him. A full moon cast its light on the Coomera River that snaked its way to the rear of the building. He started to his right where the bitumen climbed to the accommodation and administration blocks.

  It didn't take him long to make it back to his room. He never locked his door; after all, he was on a secure army base. With a flick of a light switch, he realised just how secure the base was. Laptop gone. Television and stereo wrestled for space on the floor with his collection of Robert Ludlum novels. The Lee Child novels remained on the bookshelf. He guessed that the jerk who trashed the room wasn't a fan; or maybe he was.

  He found his mobile phone wedged underneath the television and hurriedly dialled his father. The call went unanswered. He grabbed the keys to his '57 Chevy and headed to his father's house, an hour away in Brisbane.