by Andy Ritchie
Perhaps, I mused angrily, he didn’t actually think anything. Perhaps he wasn’t even watching the screen. Maybe he had seen so many people screaming and so many people sobbing that he had become desensitised to those images of suffering.
Maybe, whilst the very depths of my soul were being laid bare, the very essence of who I was being stripped away to reveal my miserable core, he was sat here, in this chair, reading Nuts magazine and eating a packet of cheese and onion crisps.
And for that very possibility, I hated him.
That was why I punched him.
That was why I punched him again.
That was why I kept on punching him until I felt Tukaal’s strong arms around me, pulling me away.
‘Enough, Jeth, enough.’
For a moment, though, my rage did not wish to be restrained and I struggled to break free of Tukaal’s grasp. But his arms were like two steel bars around me, utterly immovable, yielding nothing...and then there was his voice, barely audible, just a whisper, flowing like oil into my ears, pouring into my brain, soothing, calming, pacifying.
I don’t know what it was he was saying. It definitely wasn’t English, that was for sure. But whatever it was, it certainly had an effect because, almost as quickly as it had come, the rage inside that had driven me to pound the unconscious body of the guard with my fists, disappeared like a fleeting summer storm, the flame of a candle snuffed out by a passing gust of wind (not bad metaphors, I guess, but probably not the best!)
The rage had gone...no, the rage had been taken from me...drawn from my soul like a dressing draws pus from a wound. All of a sudden I found myself filled with a profound, almost soporific serenity, as if I had over-dosed on Night Nurse.
I knew at once that Tukaal had taken it...but how the hell could he do that? How could he have used just words...and not even words I understood, just flowing sounds, soothing utterances, mollifying syllables...to douse the flames of my anger and my hatred? How could he do that?
Maybe it wasn’t the words. Maybe it was just the way they were spoken, the tone, the timbre, the pitch, all working together, combining to form a wondrously assuasive harmony...
Or maybe I had simply burnt myself out, run out of gas, my outburst violent but always destined to be brief. After all, I’d been tortured, abused, humiliated. I hadn’t drank or eaten for hours and hours. My body still suffered from the effects of being tied up and the lingering effects of the knock-out drug they had used on me when I was first captured.
Either way, I suddenly felt incredibly weak, unable to stand and, rather than restraining me, Tukaal’s arms were now supporting me.
‘We need to get out of here, Jeth, as quickly as we can. Take a moment to gather your strength. I’ll check the corridor is clear and then we’ll make a run for it.’
I groaned inwardly at the use of the term ‘run for it’, but I did not show my weariness. Instead I nodded and gave him a half-hearted thumbs-up.
He, in turn, gave me a manly slap on the shoulder (which hurt!).
So, I took a moment not only to gather my strength, but also to gather my thoughts, to take a deep breath and...
‘Jeth, we’ve got company. Mr Mendelssohn and four...no, five guards. They’re coming down the corridor.’
I found myself wanting to ask Tukaal about Mr Mendelssohn because I was suddenly desperate to know whether he was the fucking bastard who had tortured me; I don’t know why, but I already had my suspicions that he was. But now was not the time.
‘What shall we do?’ I asked instead, my voice trembling as I failed pathetically to hide my fear and alarm.
Tukaal indicated that I should crouch down behind the console that housed the video screens. I scurried across the floor and did as he said, my tiredness and lethargy now gone, dispelled by a sudden rush of adrenaline.
I had no idea what Tukaal was going to do.
I have to admit that I did not expect him to hoist up the body of the unconscious guard and hold it out in front of him like a shield. How strong do you need to be to be able to do that? The guard must weigh at least 14 stone and Tukaal held him like he was a rag doll!
I think I actually shook my head in amazement, in spite of the tension that now seemed to hang thick and heavy in the air, like a calm before a storm.
I could see that Tukaal was waiting for Mendelssohn and the guards to reach the door, waiting for one of them to take their identity card and pass it through the swipe-card reader, for the electronic locks to disengage with a dull clunk, for the door to be pulled open...
Tukaal set off at a run, guard held out in front of him like a battering ram.
I crept to the side of the console and peered around it just in time to see the unconscious guard’s forward rushing form slam into the first of the guards, presumably the one who had swiped his card, pulled open the door and been first across the threshold of the doorway.
I also saw Tukaal following his battering-ram out of the door, his expression one of steely determination.
All I then heard were the sounds of bodies crashing into each other, bodies slamming into walls or tumbling to the floor, those sounds interspersed with cries of pain, surprise and alarm. These sounds were then followed by different sounds, the sounds of scuffling, of wrestling, those sounds interspersed with the grunts and groans of effort...and before I was even aware of it, I was clambering to my feet and heading for the door.
However strong, fast and agile Tukaal may be, I knew that he could be subdued simply by weight of numbers. If he was overpowered, then there would be no escape for me, and no escape for me meant only one thing. Death.
And as that was not a pleasant prospect, it meant I had to act.
As I ran through the door, I appraised myself of the situation with surprising speed.
One of the guards was about ten feet down the corridor, shaking his head groggily as he struggled to sit up. Beside him was my torturer whom, I suspected, must be the man Tukaal had referred to as Mendelssohn. He, too, was on his backside.
A second guard, the one who I suspect was hit with the full force of the battering ram, lay slumped against the wall to the left, eyes closed, blood dripping from damage to his nose and mouth. Partly covering him was the unconscious guard from the control room.
The three other guards were all currently grappling with Tukaal and in the relatively tight confines of the corridor, the expansive Bruce Lee-style moves with which Tukaal had taken care of some of the dark-suits in Debenhams were proving far less effective. I could see that he was in trouble, especially when I saw the guard who was slightly behind Tukaal (and therefore a few paces in front of me) preparing to use a baton on the back of Tukaal’s head.
Without thinking, I flung myself at the guard, my shoulder catching him squarely in the middle of his back and eliciting a surprised cry. The force of impact pushed him roughly into Tukaal’s back, off which he seemed to bounce. As he careered back towards me, I punched him in the stomach with as much force as I could muster and then, as he gasped heavily and bent double in front of me, I brought my knee savagely up into his face. He went down under the force of the blow...and very satisfying it was indeed.
Against the two remaining upright guards, Tukaal was now gaining the upper hand. He slammed one of them against the corridor wall, clearly winding him. The other he got into a headlock from which the guard desperately, yet ineffectually, tried to free himself.
That was when I saw the guard next to Mendelssohn draw his gun.
I knew that I wouldn’t be able to reach him in time to prevent him from getting a shot off, the distance between him and myself was simply too great. Nonetheless, that did not prevent me from acting. I snatched up the baton belonging to the guard I had dealt with and dashed past Tukaal and the final guard he was dealing with.
Already the seated guard had aimed his pistol at the enormous torso of the alien and I even think I saw him begin to squeeze the trigger.
‘Nooooo!’
But the cry did not come
from me. Instead, it came from Mendelssohn who, even now, was grabbing the guard’s hands and pulling the gun to one side. I half expected to hear the gun go off, to see part of the wall to my left explode as the bullet smashed into it...after all, that’s what would have happened if this had been a movie. But this wasn’t a movie and, as such, the gun remained silent.
The pistol-wielding guard was momentarily confused. He was wearing a curious expression as he cast his gaze towards Mendelssohn, the sort of expression which said ‘What the fuck did you do that for?’
That was the small window of opportunity that I needed.
I brought the baton savagely down on the side of the guard’s head. He instantly collapsed in a heap against Mendelssohn, the gun dropping limply from his hand.
Instantly, I turned my attention to my erstwhile torturer...and then the rage returned. Only this time it was a vengeful rage, a rage with a target, a rage with a focus.
Mendelssohn.
I wanted to come out with something profound, say something that would stay in Mendelssohn’s mind for years to come, a classic comment that the guards would tell their colleagues, family and friends about, and which would become an integral part of henchmen folklore.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t come up with anything more original than:
‘See how you like it, you fucker!’
And with that, I smashed the baton right across the bridge of Mendelssohn’s nose. It broke with a satisfying crunch, instantly gushing rich, red blood all over his open-neck shirt.
I then remembered that the head was not the only place where Mendelssohn had inflicted pain upon me. I decided that it would be rude not to repay the compliment. So, as Mendelssohn held his shattered nose and the blood poured out through his fingers, I shoved his head away from me so that he rolled back onto the floor, his legs weighed down by the unconscious, pistol-touting guard. I first smashed the baton down across his stomach, enjoying the way he tried to bring his knees up but couldn’t. I then brought the baton down onto his crotch.
I have to confess to experiencing a huge sense of satisfaction as I saw Mendelssohn’s eyes nearly pop out of his head as the hard wooden stick smashed into his small fleshy stick. Whilst the cracking of his nose had produced the most fulfilling sound, the bulging eyes, breathless gasp and involuntary way he tried desperately to curl into a foetal ball was a suitably satisfying sight.
But even that failed to satisfy me.
The rage was not only undiminished, it was stronger than ever, and now all I wanted to do was hit him and hit him and keep hitting him until I had not an ounce of strength left in my body.
There’s some saying about revenge being a dish best served cold. It’s wrong. Revenge is a dish best served. Period. Temperature has absolutely nothing to do with it. Cold, hot, tepid, lukewarm, it matters not a jot. Just serve it up, lots and lots and lots of it.
I raised the baton once again, eager now to make his ear bleed, and I made to bring it sweeping down with terrible force...only, the baton didn’t move. It stayed where it was, raised high above my head. The rest of my body, however, continued to try to move and it was only by sheer luck that I didn’t end up dislocating my shoulder.
‘One dead body here is enough, Jeth.’
I looked up.
Tukaal had hold of the baton. It may as well have been set in concrete. It simply wasn’t going anywhere.
‘Don’t let your rage make you something you’re not.’
Now that was profound.
That was the sort of thing I had wanted to say when I was about to smash Mendelssohn’s nose...obviously a touch darker and menacing, but just as memorable nonetheless.
‘Come, we need to leave.
He released his iron-grip on the baton and it fell noisily to the ground. The rage, like that same summer storm, had passed once more and this time it had taken with it much of my adrenaline-fuelled strength. But I did not collapse to the ground, for although the fire of my rage was no more, there remained behind a hard determination to inflict one final injury on Mendelssohn — escape.
As Tukaal led the way to the door at the opposite end of the corridor from the control room, I hesitated. The discarded gun lay at my feet, next to its unconscious former owner and the groaning Mendelssohn. Now I’ve never shot a gun in my life and had probably hoped to go through the rest of my life without ever needing to. But, given our current predicament, I decided that having one on me would be no bad thing. So I scooped it up and hurried after Tukaal.
As I ran along the corridor, I quickly glanced into the rooms which were on either side of it. One was a sort-of canteen with kettle, microwave, table and chairs, the usual stuff. Another was what looked like a locker room. Then there was a toilet and, at the end, what looked to be a sort of office. It all looked surreally normal.
At the end of the corridor was a door, and next to it, instead of a swipe-card reader, was a big green button with the words ‘To Open’ written helpfully above it.
Tukaal pushed it and once again we heard the dull clang of yet more disengaging electronic locks echo around us.
As Tukaal opened the door, he hesitated, looking around for something. Then he saw the gun in my hand. I swear that I thought he was going to chastise me for having picked it up, embark upon a long speech about the evil of firearms and the people who use them, about how he, like Doctor Who, never carried a weapon and that he thought my even holding a gun was the beginning of a journey down a slippery slope into a world of violence and bloodshed (like I wasn’t in a world like that already!)
But he didn’t.
He simply said:
‘Ah, just the thing. May I?’
Dumbly, I handed him the gun, the butt of which he used to smash apart the green button. Once through the doors, and with the electronic locks re-engaged, he used the butt of the gun to smash the swipe-card reader and keypad on that side of the wall as well.
‘It may slow them up a bit,’ he said, ‘or it may not.’
And with that, we turned to see where we were.
The first thing we noticed was that we were outside...which was uplifting.
The second thing we noticed was that it was raining, heavily...which was not so uplifting.
The third thing we noticed was that it was dark, very dark, something that was emphasised by the fact that, apart from the single security light that had automatically flicked on the moment we had opened the door, there wasn’t a single other light to be seen. No streetlights, no distant house lights, nothing. Just blackness.
The darkness was something which I, at least, had not expected. Having been captured around midday, I had sort of assumed that only a few hours had passed since then, even accounting for the time I was unconscious. Clearly that was not the case. It was at times like this that I wished I had gotten into the habit of wearing a watch.
The security light’s powerful beam lit up the entire area around us and revealed a very nice Jaguar XF parked a few feet from the door. We both instinctively knew that it belonged to Mendelssohn.
Tukaal without a moment’s hesitation, smashed the driver’s side window with the butt of the gun. Instantly the car’s alarm wailed, incredibly loud.
With the frightening efficiency of an experienced car thief, Tukaal already had the driver’s door open and was inside the car. I dashed around to the passenger side door and so I did not see exactly what he did to get the car started, but within two or three seconds the alarm had fallen silent and the engine had erupted into life.
No sooner had I jumped into the passenger seat than Tukaal had rammed the gear stick into first and we were away...and not before time, too, because, in the passenger wing-mirror I could see three, four, no, five guards bursting out of the entrance of the building, guns at the ready, all shouting at each other and pointing...and then there was Mendelssohn, his face and clothes gratifyingly covered in blood, his eyes, even at this distance, burning with undisguised fury.
No attempts were made to shoot the tyre
s out on the car. I guess, in the darkness they would be difficult to see and there was always the risk that a stray bullet may hit Tukaal, something which Mendelssohn had been so keen to avoid. Instead, our erstwhile captors began running for a second vehicle, yet another of those black 4x4 Range Rovers which was parked around the side of the building and which Tukaal and I could only now see as we headed for the gate. Beyond that were an old Honda Accord and a Saab.
Immediately, Tukaal slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a halt.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I asked disbelievingly, looking out of my window as the guards began to pile into the Range Rover and its engine roared into life.
‘Get your head down and cover your ears.’
I turned round to see what the fuck Tukaal was playing it, and found myself staring straight into the barrel of the gun I had taken from the guard.
I remember saying ‘shit’, putting my hands over my ears and shoving my head between my knees.
The first shot coincided with the passenger door window being blown out by the force of the bullet (I presume Tukaal decided he didn’t have time to look for the electric window control). Then there were seven more shots in rapid succession, each one seemingly more deafening than its predecessor.
Then the car lurched forward, the boom of the firearm now replaced with the screech of skidding tyres as Tukaal drove as quickly as he could towards the gate. As he did so, I stole a glance back towards the Range Rover and could see that it, and the Honda, and the Saab, all had at least one flat front tyre and all had shattered windscreens. By anyone’s standards, that was some spectacular shooting.
With another squeal of tortured rubber, we careered towards the gate. Surprisingly, the gate itself was a relatively flimsy metal one with a single chain and padlock deterring unwanted guests. It didn’t stand much of a chance against a two-tonne car travelling at about 40 miles per hour, and it was simply flung aside as Tukaal drove straight through it.