Curtains by Scott Nicholson Page B

elements were each six inches in diameter, coiled into
spirals like a whirlpool swirl. They were black, but Hutson knew
when he turned one on it would glow orange.
    Little Louie
and his bodyguards stepped behind him to get a better look.
    “It’s
electric,” noted Rocko.
    Little Louie
frowned. “The other guy used a gas stove. His sleeve caught on
fire. Remember that?”
    The thugs
giggled. Hutson picked the lower left hand burner and turned it on
the lowest setting.
    Little Louie
wasn’t impressed.
    “Hey, switch it
up higher than that.”
    “You didn’t say
how high it had to be when we made the agreement.” Hutson spoke
fast, relying on the mobster’s warped sense of fairness. “Just that
I had to keep it on for ten seconds.”
    “It was
inferred it would be on the hottest.”
    “I can put it
on low and still follow the deal to the letter.”
    Little Louie
considered this, then nodded.
    “You’re right.
You’re still following it to the letter. Leave it on low then.”
    It didn’t
matter, because already the burner was fiery orange. Rocko leaned
over and spat on it, and the saliva didn’t even have a chance to
drip through the coils before sizzling away and evaporating.
    “I think it’s
hot,” Rocko said.
    Hutson stared
at the glowing burner. He held his trembling hand two inches above
it. The heat was excruciating. Hutson’s palm began to sweat and the
hair above his knuckles curled and he fought the little voice in
his brain that screamed get your hand away!
    “Well, go
ahead.” Little Louie held up a gold pocket watch. “I’ll start when
you do. Ten whole seconds.”
    “Sweet Jesus in
heaven help me,” thought Hutson.
    He bit his lip
and slapped his hand down on to the burner.
    There was an
immediate frying sound, like bacon in a pan. The pain was instant
and searing. Hutson screamed and screamed, the coils burning away
the skin on his palm, burning into the flesh, blistering and
bubbling, melting the muscle and fat, Hutson screaming louder now,
smoke starting to rise, Little Louie sounding off the seconds, a
smell like pork chops filling Hutson’s nostrils, pain beyond
intense, screaming so high there wasn’t any sound, can’t keep it
there anymore, Jesus no more no more and...
    Hutson yanked
his hand from the burner, trembling, feeling faint, clutching his
right hand at the wrist and stumbling to the sink, turning on the
cold water, putting his charred hand under it, losing
consciousness, everything going black.
    He woke up
lying on the floor, the pain in his hand a living thing, his mouth
bleeding from biting his lower lip. His face contorted and he
yelled from the anguish.
    Little Louie
stood over him, holding the pocket watch. “That was only seven
seconds.”
    Hutson’s scream
could have woken the dead. It was full of heart-wrenching agony and
fear and disgust and pity. It was the scream of the man being
interrogated by the Gestapo. The scream of the woman having a
Caesarean without anaesthetic. The scream of a father in a burning,
wrecked car turning to see his baby on fire.
    The scream of a
man without hope.
    “Don’t get
upset.” Little Louie offered him a big grin. “I’ll let you try it
again.”
    The thugs
hauled Hutson to his feet, and he whimpered and passed out. He woke
up on the floor again, choking. Water had been thrown in his
face.
    Little Louie
shook his head, sadly. “Come on Mr. Hutson. I haven’t got all day.
I’m a busy man. If you want to back out, the boys can do their job.
I want to warn you though, a thirty grand job means we’ll put your
face on one of these burners, and that would just be the beginning.
Make your decision.”
    Hutson got to
his feet, knees barely able to support him, breath shallow, hand
hurting worse than any pain he had ever felt. He didn’t want to
look at it, found himself doing it anyway, and stared at the black,
inflamed flesh in a circular pattern on his palm. Hardly any blood.
Just raw, exposed, gooey cooked muscle where the