The Dead Yard

by Adrian McKinty

  I wink at him.

  Touched leans on the back of the chair.

  “You’ve seen what I’m capable of, haven’t you?”

  I nod my head.

  His voice is soft again, almost loving.

  “You know that that was just the beginning. Right? She was the appetizer. You will be my project, my life’s work. That I assure you. They’ll talk about you for years to come. You’ll be the horror story they tell in Langley to the rookies. ‘The worst I ever heard was about this body we found in Maine.’ And I’ll make sure they find you and they’ll know it’s you. You won’t even look human when I’m done, but I’ll carve a note in your skin explaining who you are and what you did.”

  My smile fades, but somehow I force it back onto my lips.

  “How’s your arms, Michael? Are they comfortable? Are your lungs starting to hurt? Well, maybe everything else hurts so much you haven’t noticed. But you will. Eventually we’ll tie you higher on the crossbeams, so your feet are off the floor. Later on tonight. When I’ve gouged out your eyes and castrated you. Not now. Later. You see, Michael, I’m patient. I’ve got all the time in the world. Think about it. You just think about that.”

  He pats me on the cheek, yawns, and walks over to Peter.

  “And how are you, young fella my lad? How are you doing? Are you glad to have company? Let me take that out of your mouth. . . . There. That’s better. The girls are bringing you supper. But no talking now. Understand? If you say one word to them I’ll cut out your English tongue. Nod your head if you get me.”

  Peter nods.

  “Good. You take care now, you too, Michael. I’ll be seeing you.”

  Touched opens the smokehouse door. Pauses. The sun has set, but I notice that up at the house there’s a person walking this way. Two people. Is she one of them? A hundred thousand synapses have been destroyed by blows to the head. And it’s dark. Seeing is difficult. But yeah, that’s her. Holding something, touching her fingers to her lips. Something glinting. A crucifix around her neck. Fine time to find religion. She’s nervous. Her chest breathing hard, almost hyperventilating in that big brown sweater.

  Touched closes the door. But I’ve already seen them. Seen her. Walking over with food for Peter.

  And I want to tell her. And I’ll tell her.

  Kit. The world is going to end tonight. No matter what happens.

  Don’t look for it in the skies.

  And that cross won’t protect you.

  It’s lying on the floor.

  If I can get it.

  I will get it.

  Kit, honey, you should read The Brendan Voyage as a manual on perseverance in the face of the apocalypse. Aye. The world will end tonight, for one of us at least. Turn the handle. Turn the—

  The door opens for the third time and the third character in the story enters. There are snowflakes on her sweater and hair. September snow. What a delightful rarity. Be another lovely Frost poem, but for the torture and the hostages in the bloody woodshed.

  Sonia behind Kit, carrying a tray. They leave the door open and the cold air is a welcome balm. They come in and Kit goes to pull the light on but sees it’s already lit and hesitates. Neither of them gazes at my side of the smokehouse.

  “Hello, girls, remember me?” I say, lisping from a cracked jaw.

  She doesn’t want to, but then her head turns. She looks and it all collapses. Her face, the white of her hand, and it appears for a moment as if she might swoon. She steadies herself. I know your mantra. This is his just desserts. He betrayed all of us.

  Sonia pours water from a bottle into Peter’s mouth and feeds him from the plate.

  “Sonia, I’m so thirsty, please,” I say.

  Her hand shakes but she ignores me, stealing only a quick glance back. Sonia is not the one to work on. She’s been sucked into all of this and has accepted the journey down to hell. No doubt Gerry has comforted her with a line from the bloody Aeneid. I catch her in another wee look and she stares through me, blinking stupidly.

  And no, I’m wrong. She’s not going along with it, she’s just overmedicated. Painkillers, booze. Numb.

  In any case, she ain’t the one.

  Kit comes over.

  “Hello, Kit.”

  “Hello,” she says in two-point lowercase. Mouse speak.

  Barely a whisper.

  “You did what you had to do, Kit. I don’t blame you,” I tell her.

  “I did what I had to, yes,” she says, as lifelike as Deep Blue.

  She rubs at her eyes, trying to erase the sight of so much blood. She pulls down the sleeve of the massive sweater. It’s too big for her, it’s one of her dad’s, and she looks lost in it.

  Like an orphan child.

  She steps back.

  “You weren’t expecting snow, were you?” I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  “Sean, I, I . . .” she tries to explain.

  “I know. Don’t worry about it, Kit. You made your decision, and by this time tomorrow both Peter and I will be dead, murdered, and it’ll all be over. You can think about it then.”

  On the other side of the room, Peter chokes on his food, but he’s careful not to respond.

  “I have to go,” she says and walks to the door.

  Hesitates.

  And stands there in silhouette, the door creaking as she pushes it with feigned indifference and then the hint of a skitter smile, trying to be brave and hard, like Ming the Merciless. Snow falling on one arm outside and not on the one inside, teasing me with the scent of the external world.

  This is much more effective and such sweet torture.

  You, in indecision. Torn between the cause and the family and me. Standing there, emphasizing the alignments of power in the room and the fact that you have the control and are exercising it to close out the cool air and the snowflakes and the pale and sulfurous external light.

  Sonia finishes feeding Peter.

  She joins Kit at the door.

  “We should go,” Sonia says.

  And if I could speak and think, what would I say to her? How would I convince her?

  Oh, Kit, I lied, but your dad’s the bigger liar. Your whole fucking culture is built on warped, pisshead sentimentalism. There were no old glories, just ugly massacres and men murdered on their doorsteps, or kids blown up in fish-and-chip shops, or taxi drivers gunned down behind a warehouse in the stinking docks.

  You’re going to kill me, and then what are you going to do? Wipe out every Protestant in Ireland until it’s ethnically pure?Then the Jews, Chinese, blacks. It’s so silly. It’s so twentieth century. We’re a couple of years from a new millennium. Don’t you see that, Kit? I’m the future. You’re the past.

  Someone clears his throat and a man appears behind her in the doorjamb. It’s too late to say anything now.

  “What’s keeping you two? You didn’t give bloody Benedict any, did you?” he asks.

  “No,” Sonia says meekly.

  It’s Jackie, and such is the change in the dynamic of the group that he, who is half Sonia’s age, has her cowed, scared.

  “Out of there, the pair of you,” he orders, and they go scurrying away up to the cabin. Jackie makes sure they’re long gone, shakes the snow off his jacket, and walks in carrying something. A tree branch or a billy club or a—

  He runs at me and thumps it down on the top of my head.

  “That’s your supper, mate,” he says and, chuckling to himself, pulls the rope to the bulb, extinguishes the only light, and slams the door.

  * * *

  I fought the blackout. If I passed out now I could die during the night, so I had to stay awake, conscious, sentient.

  The pain was my great ally. They’d done me a favor, break- ing my ribs and kicking my head in and punching me.

  I heard the footsteps march away from the smokehouse and back to the main cabin. Where was it? That bottle, that fucking Coke bottle. The light was failing and there wasn’t going to be much time left to look.<
br />
  I blinked the blood out of my eyes and strained on the ropes.

  There was going to be no Houdini on those cords. They’d tied me with a hangman’s knot so that as I pulled it got tighter. The only way I was getting out of these bonds was if I could somehow cut them.

  I stretched my body as far as it would go. Pointed the toes of my right foot. I leaned and strained with every muscle left.

  The Coke bottle was a few inches away. Wouldn’t matter if it was a few miles. I tried to reach it but it was impossible.

  Come on, you son of a bitch.

  I pulled and twisted. My lungs feeling as if I’d inhaled hot pitch.

  I stopped the stretch and took a breath.

  Lay back on the wall, tried to rest my ass on a raised knot of wood. Anything would be better than no support at all.

  I sucked in the air.

  A voice. English.

  “Hello?” Peter said.

  Sonia had forgotten to replace his gag.

  “Hello,” I replied once I had recovered.

  “I’ve been listening to you all afternoon,” he said in an Essex-boy London accent.

  “Yeah?”

  “I think they’re gone for the day now,” he said hopefully.

  “Aye.”

  “I want to tell you something.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m afraid,” he said simply.

  “Don’t be. We’re going to be ok,” I told him.

  “They’re going to kill us, aren’t they? You’re an FBI agent and I’m a British general’s son. They’re going to kill both of us.”

  “They’re not going to kill us.”

  “They fucking are, oh my God, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die,” he said and cried quietly for a minute or two. I let him get it out and then I told him.

  “Peter, if you’re going to talk to me you gotta keep your voice down. They’ll be back tonight to check on us periodically. So keep it down, pal.”

  “I don’t want to die,” he said, quieter now, but still sobbing.

  “Listen to me, sonny. Every single word I say costs me a tremendous effort so I’m not going to repeat anything. We’re going to be all right. I need you to keep it together. If I can find a way out of here, you’re coming too. Whatever happens, I’m going to need you to be on the ball. If you’re girning like a wean and paralyzed by fear and I have to worry about you as well as them, we’re both as dead as a ham sandwich. Understood?”

  He thought for a few seconds. Took a deep breath.

  “I understand.”

  “Ok, good. That’s what I like to hear. It’s going to be ok, but you’re going to have to work with me.”

  He shuffled a little against the pole. The way they’d tied him, he could stand or sit. Now he was sitting. The blindfold was a bandage they had wrapped round his head and covered in duct tape.

  “What do you need me to do?” he asked, a wail creeping back into his voice again.

  “I need you to calm down and trust me. I need you to compose yourself. It’s going to be ok, but, Jesus, you’ve got to trust me. Ok?”

  “Ok,” he said softly.

  “What are you tied to that thing by?”

  “A chain.”

  “Can you get out of it?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “Ok, well, I want you to try. It looks like you’re chained to a big wooden beam, so if nothing else the chain should be able to saw through the wood. Find a rough spot on the metal and start sawing. I’ll tell you if anyone comes in.”

  “Ok,” Peter said.

  And I’ll do my work.

  I leaned as far to the right as possible, but even my outstretched little toe could still not touch the goddamn bottle.

  “What’s your name?” Peter asked.

  “Michael Forsythe,” I told him. “No more talking. We’ve work to do.”

  I tried again. If it was another six inches to the right, I’d have no chance. But as it was, it was just close enough to exercise my frustrations. They’d done the same to that Greek guy, years ago. Tantalus. Poor fuck.

  “They’re going to kill us, Michael, aren’t they? Tell me the truth,” Peter said.

  “The truth is, Peter, we have a pretty fair chance of getting out of this. I left a note for the peelers on your boat, telling them where we were taking you. I didn’t know the exact location but, believe me, they’re coming. They’ll be here. Maybe not soon enough for me, but the deadline on you doesn’t expire until tomorrow, so if you keep calm and your fingers crossed, you might make it out of here.”

  “Are you saying that to make me feel better?”

  “No, I’m not. Now shut up for a minute.”

  He was quiet and I was quiet and he began sawing into the wooden beam with a smooth iron chain. He could do it if he had a couple of years, but it was better to keep him busy.

  I spent the next hour trying in vain to touch the bottle with my foot.

  But it was not possible. I’d need an atypical Maine earthquake or the assistance of a friendly Disney animal if I was ever going to reach it.

  Nah, the only way would be to ask Kit if she could fill it with water for me if she came in next time without Sonia. She just might to do it out of compassion. Sonia wouldn’t let her do it. But Kit might.

  There was a noise outside.

  A chain saw being jacked into life.

  The door opened.

  Touched was standing outside the smokehouse, obviously drunk, holding the saw, the chain whirring, smoke pouring out of the exhaust, a stink of sawdust and petrol.

  I wasn’t afraid.

  If this was it, well, I’d given it a damn good shot.

  He was grinning, stumbling, whirling the saw about his head.

  “Here we go, Mikey boy,” he said, laughing.

  There was someone with him. Two people. Jackie and Gerry. They pulled the light, closed the door, and then there was an argument.

  “What do you think you’re playing at? Need to go lie down in the snow for ten minutes, this is fucking serious,” Gerry was saying.

  Touched said something incoherent.

  The chain saw got turned off.

  “Fucking show you both a thing or two,” Touched said.

  Wiser heads had prevailed.

  “My way,” Gerry said.

  Touched muttered something.

  Gerry opened the door.

  Touched behind him, Jackie too. They’d all been drinking.

  “Go ahead,” Gerry said. Touched and Jackie clenched their fists, rushed me.

  And it all began again.

  * * *

  Tenses change. The room implodes. Touched kicks me in the stomach and punches my limp head. My skull bangs against the log wall.

  Punches and kicks. A yell and a swinging away of noise and light. Blood streaming onto my chin, a terrible noise that turns out to be me screaming.

  Touched, Jackie standing back, breathing hard from the effort.

  “Well, that’s a sweet hello,” I manage.

  Jackie laughs.

  “His name is Michael Forsythe, he told me, that’s his name,” Peter says.

  Touched stops, turns to Peter.

  “What did you say?” Touched asks.

  “He told me his name. Michael Forsythe. See, I’m helping you. I’m on your side.”

  “What else did he tell you?” Touched asks.

  Whatever you do, don’t tell him about the boat, Peter, or he’ll kill us both right now and flee the goddamn house.

  “He, he just told me his name. Michael Forsythe. That’s all,” Peter mutters.

  Touched looks at me.

  “Michael Forsythe? Where have I heard that name before? Let me think,” he wonders aloud.

  “I’ll spare you the trouble. I was the man that killed Darkey White, ratted out his gang, and went into the Witness Protection Program,” I say.

  Gerry nods his head.

  “Yeah. That’s right. I remember you,
I read about you.

  Even in Boston that was a story. You killed some of his men, too. Isn’t there a price on your head?” he says.

  “Aye, there is, bound to be close to a million bucks,” I mutter.

  “Million bucks, dead or alive, actually,” Touched says.

  “Nice wee bonus for us, Gerry, nice wee bonus.”

  I shake my head.

  “I don’t understand. Who is he?” Jackie asks.

  “He was working for the feds, Jackie. Weren’t you, Michael? You’ve been federaled up the ass for at least, at least five years now, I suppose. But why us, pal? You’d think you’d want to keep a low profile after Darkey White.”

  “I couldn’t resist your charming personality, Touched,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, I heard you were a fucking cocky son of a bitch. Did you think you could take us down, like you took down Darkey? You were impressive then, but look at you now. Look at the state of you. This time you’re a bit out of your league.Don’t you think?” Touched says.

  “Nobody said he’d only one fucking foot, though. That’s a distinguishing feature they forgot about. And his hair doesn’t look the same,” Gerry says.

  I say nothing.

  “I can’t believe this is what the feds make you do to pay the bills,” Gerry adds, drinking from a flask and slurring his words.

  Fear and a thought. Have they all got drunk enough so they can get the moral courage to butcher me?

  “Have to talk about this one, won’t we, Ger,” Touched says.

  Gerry looks pained and confused, but finally he nods.

  “One more for good measure,” Touched adds.

  He kicks me in the stomach with his booted foot, a real good kick, nothing held back. I cough and spit blood and phlegm, wheezing and riding with the ripple of the blow. The pain almost knocking me out again.

  “Come on,” Gerry says, “we’ll discuss this over a wee dram.”

  “Nah, one more, Gerry, I’ll learn him for Darkey White, too,” Touched says and takes his little green toolbox from his back pocket. He removes a thin knife.

  “Now you listen to me, you wee bastard. You’re going to tell us everything from the beginning or you’re gonna wish your ma had a miscarriage instead of you, I swear, boy,” he says.

  With that he stabs me. The knife, small and cool, cutting into my flesh like a scalpel into tenderloin. The blade carving into my skin and the pain unbearable. Touched slicing up my skin, steady and relaxed, as if he’d done this hundreds of times before. Gliding it effortlessly under the soft membrane of my chest and digging through the tissue and blood vessels and hair with a harsh and unnecessary deepness. Touched coughs like an old man, leans forward with a bony hand and those yellow nails, and rips away a bloody square of skin and holds it up to me.