him something to drink,’ God ordered.
Two men grabbed Marc. As one ripped his head back by pulling his hair, the other forced a rubber hose into his mouth and turned a wall-mounted tap, firing a powerful jet of water down his throat. The water triggered his gag reflex, but the vomit shooting up his throat was blocked by the water flooding his mouth and nose. He was drowning and vomiting at the same time. As he fought to break loose he could feel water splashing down his chest and a sense of dread, worse than anything he’d ever felt before.
The voice of God counted out the seconds, each one feeling like a month. ‘Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.’
The hose was ripped out and Marc crashed forwards. He spat the water and thrashed about, coughing up chunks of vomit lodged in the back of his mouth.
‘What’s your favourite colour?’ God demanded.
Marc remembered what Henderson had taught them: if you’re being tortured, do everything you can to slow the process down. Cough for twice as long as you need to. Clear your throat three times. Look as if you want to speak, but make rasping noises and beg for a drink.
‘I know what you’re doing,’ God shouted. ‘Tell me that your favourite colour is yellow, or the pipe goes back in, this time for a full minute.’
Marc tried not to think about it. Once the pipe went in, you couldn’t move or speak. He’d have to take the full minute. But he didn’t want to look weak. What kind of sign was he giving if he gave in after one attempt?
Marc was hauled up off the dirt floor.
‘Well?’ God asked. ‘Is yellow your favourite colour?’
Marc gritted his teeth. ‘Always preferred red.’
‘Right,’ God shouted.
The other two grabbed Marc and tipped his head back. This time his fear made him fight much harder, refusing to open his mouth even when they pinched his nose. But Marc realised he’d only made it worse for himself, because he was already short of breath when the pipe went in. He managed to push his tongue back to stop the jet making him vomit, but the water seemed colder this time and after the struggle his neck was bent back painfully.
‘Twenty-three … twenty-four …’
Marc tried telling himself that this was part of his training, they weren’t really going to let him die, but that wasn’t how he felt as the water choked him.
‘Fifty-seven … fifty-eight …’
The tube came out and he slumped on to his chest, sobbing with pain and gasping for air.
‘No delaying tactics,’ God told him, as he placed his boot on Marc’s back. ‘Tell me in three seconds or the tube goes down for a minute and a half.’
‘Yellow,’ Marc sobbed. ‘I love yellow.’
Troy yelped as one of the other Canadians delivered his electric shock.
‘OK, Troy,’ God said, as the other men positioned Marc back on his knees with the headlamp blazing in his eyes. ‘You once owned a pet rabbit called Fluffles.’
One of the Canadians clipped a wire linked to the shock apparatus to the waist of Marc’s sodden pyjamas, and another to the bottom of the leg.
Troy had watched Marc’s suffering. He fought as the men pulled his head back, but chickened out when he saw the pipe, which still had chunks of Marc’s puke stuck to it.
‘I once owned a rabbit called Fluffles,’ Troy shouted.
Marc went into spasm as the electric shock fizzed through his wet pyjamas. It wasn’t too painful, but he turned angrily towards Troy. ‘You can’t even hold out for one little squirt?’ he shouted. ‘You useless wimp!’
‘That’s what they want you to say,’ Troy shouted back. ‘They’re trying to set us against each other.’
‘Don’t give me that,’ Marc shouted.
‘Well isn’t this fun?’ God said. ‘This time it’ll just be electric shocks, but we’ll up the current from fifty amps to four hundred. Marc, tell me that your favourite actress is Vivien Leigh.’
‘Yeah she is,’ Marc said, pointing at Troy. ‘I love her. Adore her. She’s my favourite,
Two men grabbed Marc. As one ripped his head back by pulling his hair, the other forced a rubber hose into his mouth and turned a wall-mounted tap, firing a powerful jet of water down his throat. The water triggered his gag reflex, but the vomit shooting up his throat was blocked by the water flooding his mouth and nose. He was drowning and vomiting at the same time. As he fought to break loose he could feel water splashing down his chest and a sense of dread, worse than anything he’d ever felt before.
The voice of God counted out the seconds, each one feeling like a month. ‘Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.’
The hose was ripped out and Marc crashed forwards. He spat the water and thrashed about, coughing up chunks of vomit lodged in the back of his mouth.
‘What’s your favourite colour?’ God demanded.
Marc remembered what Henderson had taught them: if you’re being tortured, do everything you can to slow the process down. Cough for twice as long as you need to. Clear your throat three times. Look as if you want to speak, but make rasping noises and beg for a drink.
‘I know what you’re doing,’ God shouted. ‘Tell me that your favourite colour is yellow, or the pipe goes back in, this time for a full minute.’
Marc tried not to think about it. Once the pipe went in, you couldn’t move or speak. He’d have to take the full minute. But he didn’t want to look weak. What kind of sign was he giving if he gave in after one attempt?
Marc was hauled up off the dirt floor.
‘Well?’ God asked. ‘Is yellow your favourite colour?’
Marc gritted his teeth. ‘Always preferred red.’
‘Right,’ God shouted.
The other two grabbed Marc and tipped his head back. This time his fear made him fight much harder, refusing to open his mouth even when they pinched his nose. But Marc realised he’d only made it worse for himself, because he was already short of breath when the pipe went in. He managed to push his tongue back to stop the jet making him vomit, but the water seemed colder this time and after the struggle his neck was bent back painfully.
‘Twenty-three … twenty-four …’
Marc tried telling himself that this was part of his training, they weren’t really going to let him die, but that wasn’t how he felt as the water choked him.
‘Fifty-seven … fifty-eight …’
The tube came out and he slumped on to his chest, sobbing with pain and gasping for air.
‘No delaying tactics,’ God told him, as he placed his boot on Marc’s back. ‘Tell me in three seconds or the tube goes down for a minute and a half.’
‘Yellow,’ Marc sobbed. ‘I love yellow.’
Troy yelped as one of the other Canadians delivered his electric shock.
‘OK, Troy,’ God said, as the other men positioned Marc back on his knees with the headlamp blazing in his eyes. ‘You once owned a pet rabbit called Fluffles.’
One of the Canadians clipped a wire linked to the shock apparatus to the waist of Marc’s sodden pyjamas, and another to the bottom of the leg.
Troy had watched Marc’s suffering. He fought as the men pulled his head back, but chickened out when he saw the pipe, which still had chunks of Marc’s puke stuck to it.
‘I once owned a rabbit called Fluffles,’ Troy shouted.
Marc went into spasm as the electric shock fizzed through his wet pyjamas. It wasn’t too painful, but he turned angrily towards Troy. ‘You can’t even hold out for one little squirt?’ he shouted. ‘You useless wimp!’
‘That’s what they want you to say,’ Troy shouted back. ‘They’re trying to set us against each other.’
‘Don’t give me that,’ Marc shouted.
‘Well isn’t this fun?’ God said. ‘This time it’ll just be electric shocks, but we’ll up the current from fifty amps to four hundred. Marc, tell me that your favourite actress is Vivien Leigh.’
‘Yeah she is,’ Marc said, pointing at Troy. ‘I love her. Adore her. She’s my favourite,
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