lip.
“I told you,” the suddenly conscious addict uttered through a stream of blood, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know--”
“I know what you told me and I doubt very much that you’re sorry Mr Pearce,” Morris said. “But, luckily for you, we aint on fucking peado patrol -- we couldn’t really give a shit about you and some underage tart.”
Pearce sighed with relief.
“Although...” Morris continued with a tweak of sadistic pleasure, “What we have planned for you will be a lot worse than a pissed-off father with a machete and an eye for your crotch. If you don’t tell us what we need to know, we’ll turn castration into a walk in the park. You’ll be wishing your father had his balls cut off before the fateful day when he found your mothers number in a phone box and decided he would give wanking a miss for one night and splash out a bit.”
Pearce trembled like a vibrating toy in Morris’s strong hands.
“What do you, you-” he stuttered as he tried to speak through the blood that curdled in his throat, “y--you want?”
Morris yanked his head away from the wall and brought it parallel with his own. Blood flowed easily down Pearce’s face and he coughed it away from his mouth, spitting occasionally.
“Well,” Morris began, grabbing Pearce’s thin hair and pulling his head back so his eyes bore into the ceiling. “Word is, you’re a dealer.”
“Me? No!” Pearce blistered instinctively. “I don’t touch drugs.”
Morris rolled up Pearce’s shirt and exposed an array of scabs, blisters and fresh holes around a slightly blued forearm.
“And this is eczema I suppose?”
Pearce struggled to regain his thoughts. For a man of low intelligence he was surprisingly good at denying his recreational habits, but with a head full of sharp daggers, a mouth loaded with blood, a nose which felt like it had been crushed in a vice and a strong grip on his head, he was finding it difficult to cultivate lies.
“It’s--it’s a medical problem,” he declared unsurely.
“Looks bad, does your doctor know about this?”
Pearce mulled this question over before answering. “No, I ‘ate ‘ospitals. I’m ‘oping it will go away, it should be okay.”
Morris nodded and examined the scars. “It looks bad. Any medical condition like this could need immediate attention.”
“You’re right,” Pearce reasoned. “I’ll go straight to the ‘ospital shall I?”
“No time,” Morris said. “But, you’re in luck. I did a bit of Biology in school.” He held out his right hand to Roach as Pearce trembled in his left. “Scalpel!” he instructed.
“What are you doing?” Pearce pleaded.
“It needs immediate attention.”
Roach pulled a sharp shaving blade from his pocket, flicked it open and laid it on Darren’s outstretched palm.
He moved the blade to the scarred wrist. “No need to worry,” he assured. “I got this,” he lowered the blade until it touched skin, he could fell Pearce squirming in his grasp. He slowly poked the point of the blade into a fresh puncture wound, teasing the tip of the steel underneath the skin.
“OK! Stop!” Pearce pleaded in fear. “I’ll tell you what you want to know, just please don’t ‘urt me.”
Morris smiled, flicked the blade closed, passed it back to Roach then grinned directly into Pearce’s face: “Excellent.”
31
“As I was saying,” Morris’s mouth was inches away from the coppery scented breath of Wayne Pearce. “You’re a dealer aren’t you?”
Taking the psychotic actions of his crazed captor in mind, Pearce guessed he was not a police officer. He’d be beaten up by the police before, but not to this extent, and none of them had ever threatened -- with full intent -- to slice open his arm. He reasoned that whoever this man was, he was not a copper -- but he was clearly insane.
“Yes, I’m a dealer,” Pearce admitted
“Has anything… exciting hit the streets recently?”
“What d’you mean?”
“New drugs, new
“I told you,” the suddenly conscious addict uttered through a stream of blood, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know--”
“I know what you told me and I doubt very much that you’re sorry Mr Pearce,” Morris said. “But, luckily for you, we aint on fucking peado patrol -- we couldn’t really give a shit about you and some underage tart.”
Pearce sighed with relief.
“Although...” Morris continued with a tweak of sadistic pleasure, “What we have planned for you will be a lot worse than a pissed-off father with a machete and an eye for your crotch. If you don’t tell us what we need to know, we’ll turn castration into a walk in the park. You’ll be wishing your father had his balls cut off before the fateful day when he found your mothers number in a phone box and decided he would give wanking a miss for one night and splash out a bit.”
Pearce trembled like a vibrating toy in Morris’s strong hands.
“What do you, you-” he stuttered as he tried to speak through the blood that curdled in his throat, “y--you want?”
Morris yanked his head away from the wall and brought it parallel with his own. Blood flowed easily down Pearce’s face and he coughed it away from his mouth, spitting occasionally.
“Well,” Morris began, grabbing Pearce’s thin hair and pulling his head back so his eyes bore into the ceiling. “Word is, you’re a dealer.”
“Me? No!” Pearce blistered instinctively. “I don’t touch drugs.”
Morris rolled up Pearce’s shirt and exposed an array of scabs, blisters and fresh holes around a slightly blued forearm.
“And this is eczema I suppose?”
Pearce struggled to regain his thoughts. For a man of low intelligence he was surprisingly good at denying his recreational habits, but with a head full of sharp daggers, a mouth loaded with blood, a nose which felt like it had been crushed in a vice and a strong grip on his head, he was finding it difficult to cultivate lies.
“It’s--it’s a medical problem,” he declared unsurely.
“Looks bad, does your doctor know about this?”
Pearce mulled this question over before answering. “No, I ‘ate ‘ospitals. I’m ‘oping it will go away, it should be okay.”
Morris nodded and examined the scars. “It looks bad. Any medical condition like this could need immediate attention.”
“You’re right,” Pearce reasoned. “I’ll go straight to the ‘ospital shall I?”
“No time,” Morris said. “But, you’re in luck. I did a bit of Biology in school.” He held out his right hand to Roach as Pearce trembled in his left. “Scalpel!” he instructed.
“What are you doing?” Pearce pleaded.
“It needs immediate attention.”
Roach pulled a sharp shaving blade from his pocket, flicked it open and laid it on Darren’s outstretched palm.
He moved the blade to the scarred wrist. “No need to worry,” he assured. “I got this,” he lowered the blade until it touched skin, he could fell Pearce squirming in his grasp. He slowly poked the point of the blade into a fresh puncture wound, teasing the tip of the steel underneath the skin.
“OK! Stop!” Pearce pleaded in fear. “I’ll tell you what you want to know, just please don’t ‘urt me.”
Morris smiled, flicked the blade closed, passed it back to Roach then grinned directly into Pearce’s face: “Excellent.”
31
“As I was saying,” Morris’s mouth was inches away from the coppery scented breath of Wayne Pearce. “You’re a dealer aren’t you?”
Taking the psychotic actions of his crazed captor in mind, Pearce guessed he was not a police officer. He’d be beaten up by the police before, but not to this extent, and none of them had ever threatened -- with full intent -- to slice open his arm. He reasoned that whoever this man was, he was not a copper -- but he was clearly insane.
“Yes, I’m a dealer,” Pearce admitted
“Has anything… exciting hit the streets recently?”
“What d’you mean?”
“New drugs, new
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