The Deadly Game(43)

‘You fractured his skull!’ said Jake angrily. ‘You nearly killed him!’

‘So, if you know that, ask yourself, how much do you want to be hurt?’ asked Shorty, and he looked into Jake’s face and gave a grin that sent a shiver of fear through him. The short man’s smile was evil. The Boxer’s the tough one, but Shorty likes inflicting pain, Jake realised.

When the punch came it was short but hard, smashing into Jake’s face, catching him high on the head and rocking him back, the chair tilting with it. Pain filled Jake’s brain. As the chair rocked forward, Shorty swung his other fist. As it connected, more pain surged through him. This time when the chair tilted, it carried on, and Jake found himself smashing into the concrete floor of the garage. The taste of blood filled his mouth, and he knew he was bleeding from his forehead, when he’d hit the ground hard as he toppled sideways, still tied to the chair.

‘Want me to have a go?’ asked the Boxer.

Jake looked up and saw Shorty shake his head. He was grinning, and Jake knew he was enjoying this.

‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Anyway, that’s just for starters, to let him know we mean business. Put him back up.’

The Boxer ambled over to Jake, reached under his arms and lifted him and the chair up as if they weighed nothing. He put Jake and the chair back down in the centre of the garage. Jake’s head was throbbing painfully from the punches, and from where he’d fallen. His forehead screamed with pain from grazing it on the concrete, and blood dripped down past his eyes and trickled from between his lips. He wondered if any of his teeth were loose.

Shorty grinned at Jake, then stepped away from him and gestured at the garage walls. Mechanic’s tools of all sorts hung from hooks.

‘When we were at your friend’s house we had to improvise,’ said Shorty, his cheerful tone making Jake feel even sicker to his stomach. ‘But here, we’ve got everything we need: pliers, heavy-duty car batteries and jump leads, claw hammers, screwdrivers.’ He smiled. ‘And the beauty of it is we’re away from the main road, so no one can hear you scream.’

He walked back and stood in front of Jake.

‘So, what’s it to be? You tell us where the book is or we start to take you apart. How much do you reckon you can take before you tell us?’ He turned to the Boxer and asked, ‘How long d’you reckon he’ll hold out? Two fingernails? A broken arm?’ He turned back to Jake, saying, ‘I reckon you’ll talk once we’ve fixed a car battery to a certain very sensitive part of your anatomy and sent a few serious charges through you. The skin burns from the inside, you know. There’s that smell of roasted meat, and then the skin starts smouldering. Sometimes it even bursts into flames. It’s the fat under the skin, so someone told me.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, I reckon we’ll start with the car battery.’

With that he walked over to the garage wall and loaded a car battery on to a trolley. He pushed the trolley to the chair. Then he took a pair of jump leads down from the wall. He snapped the metal clips at the end of the two wires as he walked back to Jake. He was smiling the whole time.

I can’t do this, thought Jake. I’ll tell them as soon as they start. It’s not just a few seconds of pain, or even a few minutes, like in a dentist’s chair. This will go on and on, for hours, maybe days, and at the end of it I’ll be dead.

But I can’t let them have the book. It’s our only chance of getting Lauren back.

As Shorty began to connect the jump leads to the battery, Jake felt fear forcing the vomit to rise in his throat and knew he was going to throw up. I have to play for time! he thought. I have to stall them!

‘It’s in my flat!’ he blurted out.

Shorty stopped and looked at him. He looked disappointed.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘It’s in my flat,’ Jake repeated.

If I can get them to take me to my flat, I’ve got a chance of getting away from them, he thought. Here, in this torture chamber, I’ve got no chance.

Shorty shook his head.

‘I don’t believe you,’ he said.

‘I’ll take you there and show you,’ said Jake, his voice desperate.

Shorty and the Boxer exchanged looks.

‘What do you reckon?’ asked Shorty.

The Boxer shrugged.

‘He could be telling the truth,’ he said.

Shorty studied Jake, frowning thoughtfully.

‘You could be lying,’ he mused.

‘It’s in my flat!’ insisted Jake, not knowing what else to say. ‘In a bag on the top of my wardrobe.’

Shorty didn’t move, nor did his thoughtful expression change as he looked at Jake. He knows I’m lying, thought Jake. He’s going to torture me anyway. Finally, Shorty nodded.