by Sean Hancock
I remember my dream and the strange episode with the chair, the very one I’m bound to now. My internal compass is telling me I’m facing the door. That means bed on the left, desk right, window behind. I think about the image I was shown when that tentacle delved into my forehead: me sitting as I am now, tied up as I am now, Meta—or someone posing as Meta—telling me to wake up, that I was in danger.
The person in front of me speaks for the first time. Confirming my initial suspicion, he says, “Listen up, bruv; no one cares what you say. Plus, I told you ‘nuff times we ain’t goin’ nowhere till I get my wheels. You get me? Then we’re teaching this bitch a lesson while her pussy-hole boyfriend watches. Be none of dis face-to-face white boy shit either, nah man, allow it, I’m flipping her over like the dog she is. Woof woof.”
Laughter.
He’s talking about Tammuz. I raise my head, opening my eyes, discovering I am farther back in the room than anticipated.
The desk, which Robbie is perched on, is over to the right. Because of where he’s sitting, I can’t see the digital clock on the television—how long was I unconscious?—but I can see my money and a thick roll of silver duct tape.
Beyond the desk is a short, narrow hallway that leads to the door. I assess my options while looking into Robbie’s eyes, telling him without words that whatever happens to Tammuz will be returned to him tenfold. The anger in my chest makes me feel I could explode, sending forth deadly shards of bone and teeth to maim, kill, and disembowel. If Ashkai were here, he would tell me that anger clouds the mind and impairs judgment and that true strength comes from stillness and love. But he isn’t here. I am alone. And I must do things my way.
Robbie, spliff in one hand, tire wrench in the other, looks me up and down, his expression somewhere between a leer and an angry snarl.
“Wagwan my liqqle ninja, sleep good?” Cane rolls, orange bomber jacket, thick, gold chain on his left wrist, chunky watch. I absorb everything I can, searching for weaknesses.
I look left. Sitting on the bed are two others I recognize: closest, perched on a corner, is the mixed-race guy (wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap) who dragged Tammuz off the moped. He’s gnawing at his fingernails and has the air of someone who doesn’t want to be here. I’m guessing he’s the one who suggested they quit while they’re ahead.
Farther away, his back against the headrest, feet up, is the wiry Indian with bulbous eyes who tried but failed to take me down on the estate. The music is coming from his phone. He sees me looking at him and brings his hand up to his face, inhaling deeply through his nose. It’s a strange and confusing gesture until I see he’s holding a pair of my knickers.
The contents of my bag have been spilled onto the floor, and the mini bar has been raided: miniature vodkas and whiskies, bottles of beer, packets of peanuts, and chocolate wrappers; the place is a mess. There’s a large, half- drunk bottle of Jack Daniels next to Robbie. He must have brought that with him. I look over a shoulder to see if there’s anyone behind, but there isn’t.
I fix my eyes on Robbie and try to get inside his head, try to influence his thoughts and decisions, but it’s easier said than done. Under the right circumstances, it’s something I believe I could do. But these are anything but: I’m tied up, and the marijuana smoke is making me light-headed. I’m also afraid and angry, and the music is driving me crazy.
Robbie stands and leans forward, giving me a brief line of sight on the television: 2:28 a.m. I was unconscious for over half an hour.
He takes a hit on the joint and blows three smoke rings in my face. “You wanna speak, innit?”
I nod, eyes stinging.
“I take this off”—he points at the duct tape over my mouth—“you ain’t gonna scream or make a peep, are you?”
I shake my head, still trying to penetrate his, silently saying, Let me go, Robbie, let me go, over and over, at the same time listening to the psychopath say, “Cos if you do”—he gets a firmer grip on the wrench—“I’ll crack your skull like a melon.”
He makes as if to strike, and I flinch. Robbie laughs and looks at his friends, saying, “See what I’m tellin’ you? Just needs breaking in like da rest of em.”
They laugh, and Robbie says, “You’re gonna be a good girl, yeah, do what I tell you?”
I nod.
Robbie passes the joint to the Indian and offers one last warning. “Don’t mess with me, Rosa, this ain’t no game, you know.”
My passport.
Robbie says, “And we know where you live.”
I nod again, and he peels off the tape, doing it roughly and without care.
I use my tongue to empty my mouth, and a white ankle sock (that belongs to me) lands on my skinny, bare thighs. It’s stupid, but having it there makes me feel less naked and exposed.
Keeping my face flat and emotionless, I say, “What do you want?”
Robbie slides the tip of his wrench along my inner thighs and knickers and pushes my sock to the ground. Glancing between my legs, he says, “Everything you got.” After a few more seconds of ogling, the message in his eyes crystal clear, he backs off and settles on the corner of the desk. “You think you can come to my yard and pull that Bruce Lee shit and get away with it?” He sucks teeth. “Nah, man, it’s eye for an eye round my sides. You fucked me, now I fuck you; dems the rules.”
I glance at the stack of fifty-pound notes on the desk. “Take the money and leave. While you still can.”
The guy who’s wearing the baseball cap says, “She’s right, man, this is gettin’ on top . . .” But he stops speaking when Robbie stands and looms over him, wrench at the ready. Robbie says, “One more word about bailin’, bruv, I dare you, just one more word, come on, what you got for me?”
Silence.
“Come on, big man, let’s hear you bitch and moan some more.”
Cowering, Baseball Cap says, “Okay, bruv, allow it, allow it, it’s cool, man, it’s cool, chill, bruv.”
The Indian gets to his feet. “Allow it, Robbie, allow it, man, you know what he’s like.” Then to Baseball Cap: “My days, Choppy! Why you always gotta be such a pussy?”
“I know, I know,” he replies. “I’m sorry, man, sorry . . .”
Robbie stares for a beat longer, Choppy coming over all servile and submissive, letting his master know he won’t talk out of turn again. Seemingly satisfied, Robbie softens, the two of them bumping fists now, saying, “Respect.”
Robbie returns to his spot on the desk and faces me, picking up where we left off, never letting go of that wrench. “Dis ain’t about money, boo,” he says. “You disrespected me in my own yard, and man dem cannot allow such liberties to go unpunished, you get me?”
“Where is Tammuz?” I ask.
“Your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Is it?” he says, nodding. “Why’s he comin’ to save you then?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s on his way, innit.”
“Why?”
“Cos we texted him a picture of you tied up. He called beggin’ us not to hurt you, crying like a bitch; one of my boys went to grab him.”
“How did you find us?”
“I had my people scouting for you,” he says, looking pleased. “It was my number one priority, you get me?” He holds a finger up. “Number one.”
I remain silent, trying to work out what’s going on, my head swimming with questions and scenarios, when a piece of the puzzle falls into place.
“The girl on the train,” I say, remembering her cream beanie hat and friendly smile. “She was following me?”
Robbie glances at his friends. “She can fight, she’s buff, and she’s smart, too. Wifey material, innit?” Then back to me: “Everyone who saw your face was out scouring; we had eyes on the high street, at the station, outside Tescos. . . ” He throws another look at his friends. “These chiefs kept tellin’ me it was a waste of time, but I don’t give up easy.”
“How did yo
u get Tammuz’s number?”
“Found a lottery ticket in your jeans. Guess what, it was a winner.”
Addressing the Indian, Robbie says, “Give Dane a buzz, yeah? Tell him stop messin’ around, we ain’t got all night, man, and I’m getting horny, yunartamean?”
“What if Tammuz brings the police?” I ask, ignoring the disgusting wink Robbie just gave me. The music stops at the same moment; the Indian is making a phone call. “You thought about that?”
Choppy seems even more nervous, probably because I mentioned the police, but he doesn’t say anything; he looks at the floor and bites his nails.
Robbie loses his temper again. “This question time or sommit?” he says. “Shut yer mouth, girl, before I slap you up.”
“Leave Tammuz out of it,” I say. “He hasn’t done anything. I’m the one you want, and I’m already here.”
Robbie stands, even angrier now, spreading his body wide, making a show of how crazy he is. “I look like I takes orders from bitches? I’ll do whatever I want to whoever I want when I want, you get me?”
Looking up at him, I say, “You and your friends are going to rape me while Tammuz watches, is that your plan? Because I’m telling you now, that isn’t going to happen.”
Robbie leans into me, his breath humming with marijuana smoke, dry-roasted peanuts, and Jack Daniels. I notice for the first time how wasted he is. He says, “Baby girl, by the time we’re done taking turns on you, you ain’t gonna be able to walk for a month.”
“You’ll have to kill me first.”
“And bang a corpse? My days! I ain’t into that weird shit.”
“You’re disgusting,” I say, spitting in his face. He backhands me, so I spit again, saliva hitting his orange jacket. He’s furious now and raises his right arm to strike me with the wrench. Part of me wills him to swing with everything he’s got because fuck him; the other part realizes I have to stay alive, for Tammuz if not myself.
“Please do that again, I beg of you,” he says. “Spit at me again; see what happens.”
I take a moment to compose myself.
Trying a different approach, I say, “Please, Robbie, don’t do this.”
“Is it? The ninja can beg! What happened to all da tough talk?”
The Indian gets up off the bed. “Bruv, bruv, Dane’s outside.”
“What’s he sayin’?”
“He’s got him.”
“Moped, too?”
“Yeah, man, all good.”
Moments later, there’s a knock, and Robbie tells Choppy to answer the door. Robbie returns to his position on the edge of the desk, wrench on lap. He swivels right so he can welcome our new arrivals. Even though I have to crane my head a little, I have a good view of what’s happening. I see Tammuz’s face first. He’s being shoved forward by a large black kid (who must be Dane) with short, spiky dreadlocks. Tammuz says, “You okay, Sam, they hurt you?” His face is pale and fear-stricken.
Robbie puts on a silly voice and mimics him. “You okay, Sam, they hurt you?” Then, as Dane, helmet in hand, pushes Tammuz onto the bed, Robbie adds, “Sam. The fuck is Sam?”
“Huh?” Tammuz says, his whole body trembling. Choppy walks to the other side of the room now, standing behind me somewhere.
Robbie says, “Don’t they speak English where you’re from? I said, who’s Sam?”
Tammuz glances in my direction. “She is,” which is when Robbie bursts out laughing.
“How many names you got, boo?”
I ignore him.
“Lying about who you are, bag fulla cash, airport hotel . . . You’re running from somfin’, innit? And it must be pretty deep if you need to get out the country. What you do?”
“I killed someone,” I say.
“Who?”
“A man who underestimated me.”
“You got something against men?”
“Only ones who try to rape me.”
Robbie grins. “Is it, babes?” He stands and walks toward me, stopping when his groin is just inches from my face.
“This ain’t personal, you know, it’s bidness. You disrespected me, and I can’t have that, yunartamean?”
“Take the money and leave,” I say.
“Don’t worry, I will,” he replies. “But first I’m gonna take my dick out, and you’re gonna suck it. The harder you work, the sooner it’s done. Try anything stupid and his head”—he points the wrench at Tammuz—“gets taken off, then yours.” Robbie steps back. “Do what I tell you, play nice, and both of you walk away from this. We got a deal?”
“Before you put anything in my mouth, you better say goodbye to it.”
I clap my teeth together hard and fast.
“Ouch,” Robbie says, followed by, “I hear you, Rosa or Sam or whatever your name is, foreplay ain’t your thing.”
He’s talking to his boys now, telling them to cover my mouth with duct tape, that he wants me facedown on the bed. Things are starting to get very real.
Tammuz tries pleading with them, saying he can get money, lots of it, and that his dad is rich, but Dane slaps him and tells him to shut up. Meanwhile, the Indian is walking toward me, grabbing the duct tape, saying, “I get twos, yeah?”
Despite having memories spanning thousands of years, and despite having suffered in every way imaginable, I feel afraid, powerless, and very, very stupid.
This is your fault, Samsara, I think, fully aware that our individual realities are only ever a reflection of our deepest thoughts and feelings.
“Whatever you focus on grows,” Ashkai always said, and he was right.
Tammuz stands and says, talking to Robbie, “I remember how we know each other.”
Dane squares up to him. “What you chattin’ about, you idiot?”
Still talking to Robbie, Tammuz says, “The other night, you asked if we’d met before. Well, we have.”
Robbie puts a hand on Dane’s shoulder so that he backs off. “Where?”
“Outside Archway Station a few weeks back,” Tammuz says, his voice trembling. “You tried to mug me.”
“What d’ya mean tried?”
“I ran. You chased me, but I was too fast.”
Robbie’s eyes light up. “Oh shit, I remember this chief,” he says, becoming animated, enjoying himself. “You can move, innit, bruv!” Talking to the room now: “Soon as I pulled my shank, he was out of there, gone, I’m tellin’ you, a white Usain Bolt.” Looking back at Tammuz, he says, “What can you do a hundred meters in?”
“Huh?”
“What’s your hundred meter time?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about in school, they must have clocked you, innit?”
Tammuz looks confused, fear fogging his mind. I’m thinking if I can get him to calm down and focus, then maybe I’ll be able to get a message through. Robbie says, “You stupid or sumfin’? I said what was your time in school?”
“Twelve, maybe thirteen seconds . . .”
“Nah, man, allow it, you’re quicker than that, or can you only run when a nigger’s chasing you? Bet if we took you outside now, you’d break the world record, innit?”
“Why don’t we go and find out?” Tammuz says, heading for the door.
Dane pushes him back. “Where’d you think you’re going?”
“Tammuz,” I say, speaking loudly. “Look at me. I need you to look at me and nobody else. Focus on what I’m about to say and look at me.”
Our eyes meet, and I open my heart to him, repeating in my mind, We are connected; we are one, while saying, for the benefit of the room, “We need to do what they tell us, Tammuz, it’s our only chance.”
“Listen to your girl,” Robbie says. “She’s speaking sense at long last.”
I carry on talking, telling Tammuz to stay calm, that it will all be over soon, but my real message, the one I’m sending telepathically, is of a very different nature.
Speaking aloud, I say, “Do you understand, Tammuz?”
Something has happened,
but I’m not sure what. I listen for his thoughts, but all I’m able to pick up is fear.
“You heard the lady,” Robbie says. “You understand or what?”
Tammuz looks confused, and I wish I had more time, but Robbie and his friends are losing interest in our little scene. Praying something got through to Tammuz, that he’ll have the courage to act even if it didn’t, I let out a huge, terror-filled scream, shouting, “Help, Room 407, help!” Robbie explodes into action. He’s half a second from taking my head off with that wrench when Tammuz rugby tackles him from behind.
Yes!
I tense every muscle in my body as they smash into me hard and fast. The fragile chair collapses under our combined weight as we hit the floor.
Tammuz is trying to put Robbie in a headlock but loses his grip in the fall, and they struggle. Robbie, who must have dropped his wrench, uses his superior size and strength to elbow and eventually roll Tammuz over, the two of them wrestling on the floor beside me now, the base of the bed hemming them in. The Indian and Dane are trying their best to get involved, but with limited space and a constantly moving target, they’re finding it difficult to land any meaningful blows.
I bite at the tape around my wrists and yank my arms apart. I’m about to reach forward to free my ankles, worried how long that will take, when I see something that makes everything slow down. Robbie’s backside is right next to my face, and the pockets of his jeans have embroidered letters on them: FU on the left, BU on the right. My hand is already inside the latter, knowing there will be something in there I can use.
Robbie is too busy with Tammuz to notice what I’ve done, same with Dane and the Indian, but Choppy is a different matter. He’s standing directly above, looking down at me, wrench in his right hand. His eyes are full of indecision (or is that compassion?), and he fails to act as I open the lock knife I just pickpocketed and use it to release my ankles and midriff before stabbing Robbie in his upper right thigh, the blade hitting bone before I pull it out again.
Robbie screams, but by the time anyone knows what’s happening, I’m up on my feet and have the blade against his throat, pulling him to his knees while telling Choppy to drop the wrench and get in front of me where I can see him. I order the others to back away from Tammuz, who’s curled up on the floor in a tight ball.