‘I’m glad to see you’re such an expert on the British Army,’ Ollie said sarcastically.
‘We like to know our enemy.’
‘And so do we.’
Park paused for a moment. He was playing with the cattle prod like a relay baton. At a rough glance, Ollie reckoned it had about 4,000 volts in it. Enough to give even the tough hide of a bullock a nasty jolt. On a man - well, it wouldn’t be lethal, but it would still hurt like hell. Cattle prods, as the name suggested, had been developed by farmers to control their herds, but the Chinese People’s Liberation Army had deployed them as a crowd control and torture device; Park must have picked up the technique from them. Delivering sharp, intense bursts of pain, they wouldn’t kill you, nor would they leave the incriminating body burns and cuts that most other tortures did. Yet they could still break a man.
‘Whether you use army ranks or not is no concern of mine,’ said Park eventually, weighing each word carefully. ‘You are still the only officers, and I suspect the men look to you for guidance. It is the same in any military organisation. So, it is to you that I shall address my remarks. We would like you to sign a full confession—’
‘Saying what?’ interrupted Ollie.
‘Saying you came to Batota to assassinate President Kapembwa, and you were in the pay of big business and its British colonial masters.’
‘It’s bollocks,’ Ollie said immediately. ‘We were set up to provide a show trial for your President. And you know it.’
‘It would be better for you to sign.’
‘So you keep saying.’
Park took a step closer, peering straight into Ollie’s eyes. ‘As an officer you have a duty towards your men,’ he hissed. ‘And in this case, the duty says you should minimise their suffering. You know you’ll sign eventually so let’s just get it done.’
Ollie remained totally silent. Lock yourself up in your box, he reminded himself. Don’t let them frighten you.
‘Very well, we’ll play this your way,’ continued Park coldly. He nodded towards the noose.
‘I’m going to hang one of you as an example to the others,’ he said. ‘Once they see your corpse dangling from the rope they’ll sign quickly enough. So I’d like one of you to volunteer to be the man who puts his head into the rope whilst the other goes down to explain to the others how we deal with prisoners who don’t obey orders around here.’
The statement was delivered crisply, without a trace of emotion.
Christ, thought Ollie. He really means it.
‘Come on, come on,’ the short man said impatiently. ‘Which of you is it to be? We don’t have all day.’
Ollie took a step forward.
‘Bugger it, Ollie, you don’t—’ started David.
‘You’ve got four kids, mate,’ said Ollie, struggling to keep his voice level.
‘We’ll draw straws,’ said David.
‘We’ll do no such thing,’ retorted Ollie. ‘I got us into this mess.’
‘But—’
Park pointed his cattle prod straight at David. ‘It’s been decided.’ He turned to Ollie and smiled. ‘I’m glad to see that a sense of honour still survives among British soldiers. I would hate to think even that had died.’
He gestured towards the chair. ‘Stand on that please.’
Ollie walked uneasily towards the chair. His legs were surprisingly steady, but his stomach was churning. There were plenty of times he’d thought about dying. There had been a few close shaves, enough for him to feel at least on nodding terms with the Grim Reaper. But he’d always imagined his number would get called, if called it was, on a battlefield with a gun in his hands.
Not with a rope around his neck.
He took a single step up onto the chair.
One of the soldiers placed a stepladder next to it, then placed the noose carefully over Ollie’s neck. He could feel the rope against his skin, its rough knots edging into his throat. The man then tightened the noose so that it gripped his windpipe, but still left him room to breathe.
Ollie could feel a bead of sweat run down his chest. Lena, he thought again, retreating into his box. He’d been too young to think about it at the time, but she was quite a minx. He wouldn’t mind climbing into her bed again, he decided. Except she’d probably be at least fifty by now, and have a Sicilian husband who was even more scary than the Korean bastard standing right in front of him.
She might have a daughter though, Ollie decided. Almost certainly did. He permitted himself a brief, tight smile, one that took his captors by surprise. Lena’s daughter, he repeated to himself. That might be someone for a man to live for.