vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid .’
His eyes took in where he was and it filtered through to his brain.
We were in a freezer room. A huge industrial meat plant room that could house a whole herd of frozen cattle. But for now there was only me and Wallace Ogilvie. The white walls shone brightly under the fluorescent lighting, giving little indication that the meat plant had lain empty for nearly a year. The owners had taken a subsidy offer from Lithuania and upped sticks, leaving behind a workforce and a factory they couldn’t sell. Everything was in working order in case a buyer could be found but that hadn’t happened.
Security, such as it was, was easily bypassed. There was nothing to steal, nothing to use. No carcasses.
Not yet.
I think Wallace Ogilvie had worked it out by this point. That would explain why he had begun to cry. He shook and sobbed. He wailed in protest deep behind the tape.
I’d often wondered about pity. Wondered how I found it so easy not to give it room. I was supposed to feel it. I knew that. It was the natural, human response and I still clung to my humanity.
But my capacity for pity died the day she did. It disappeared along with hope, dreams and faith. I had no time and no use for pity. I compartmentalized. It’s easier than you might think.
Anyway, given that I had no pity for the others then it was never likely I’d have any for Wallace Ogilvie. I’d risen above any temptation to offer compassion to the rest so it was no effort to do the same with the man before me.
Pitiless. Merciless. Hard-hearted. I could do those. But not unfeeling. Right then, I was awash with feelings.
So was Wallace Ogilvie. He had pissed himself, a telltale pool at his feet and a dark stain at his groin. The stench was awful. Urine, fear and sweat swirling together. Disgusting but strangely pleasing in the circumstances. I was glad to know that Wallace Ogilvie was so scared he couldn’t control his bladder. That he was so pathetic.
It would have been good to think it was remorse but you don’t pish your pants out of guilt or repentance. Fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. He cowered before his Lord out of dread and his Lord was me.
There was plenty I could have said to him but nothing came out. It was all there in my head but unsaid.
I looked at him. Stared at him. His head was on his chest now. It would have been so easy to hit him. Punch him, strangle him, kick him in the head, break his legs. So tempting. But I already knew what I was going to do and so it seemed did Wallace Ogilvie. Or perhaps he simply knew that he was going to die.
I stood over him, waiting until he lifted his head and looked at me with his red, pleading eyes. I nodded at him. It was now.
I turned and walked away, closing the door behind me. There was a window cut into the door so that I could see Wallace Ogilvie and he could see me. I stood for a few moments, looking at him and catching my own reflection in the glass. I looked calm apart from my eyes. They looked strained, wild.
I threw the switch. It was out of Wallace Ogilvie’s view but he would soon know that I had done it.
I stood, watched and waited. My eyes were on his, his on me. I wanted to see the reaction, the first sign of realization. I wanted to see him twitch.
Ten minutes and nothing. Maybe the unit had lain idle too long. I began to wonder if it was working properly.
Fifteen minutes and I was sure it wasn’t operational. I began to wonder if I could fix it. I’d no idea where to start. It would be terrible. It was all going wrong.
Then he twitched. It was just a shake of a shoulder. A single shiver. It was enough.
A surge of exhilaration and anticipation ran through me. He shivered with cold and I shivered with excitement.
I spoke to the glass in front of me. I spoke to him knowing that he probably couldn’t hear.
‘The normal body temperature of an adult human is 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. Your core temperature is already less. But I guess you
His eyes took in where he was and it filtered through to his brain.
We were in a freezer room. A huge industrial meat plant room that could house a whole herd of frozen cattle. But for now there was only me and Wallace Ogilvie. The white walls shone brightly under the fluorescent lighting, giving little indication that the meat plant had lain empty for nearly a year. The owners had taken a subsidy offer from Lithuania and upped sticks, leaving behind a workforce and a factory they couldn’t sell. Everything was in working order in case a buyer could be found but that hadn’t happened.
Security, such as it was, was easily bypassed. There was nothing to steal, nothing to use. No carcasses.
Not yet.
I think Wallace Ogilvie had worked it out by this point. That would explain why he had begun to cry. He shook and sobbed. He wailed in protest deep behind the tape.
I’d often wondered about pity. Wondered how I found it so easy not to give it room. I was supposed to feel it. I knew that. It was the natural, human response and I still clung to my humanity.
But my capacity for pity died the day she did. It disappeared along with hope, dreams and faith. I had no time and no use for pity. I compartmentalized. It’s easier than you might think.
Anyway, given that I had no pity for the others then it was never likely I’d have any for Wallace Ogilvie. I’d risen above any temptation to offer compassion to the rest so it was no effort to do the same with the man before me.
Pitiless. Merciless. Hard-hearted. I could do those. But not unfeeling. Right then, I was awash with feelings.
So was Wallace Ogilvie. He had pissed himself, a telltale pool at his feet and a dark stain at his groin. The stench was awful. Urine, fear and sweat swirling together. Disgusting but strangely pleasing in the circumstances. I was glad to know that Wallace Ogilvie was so scared he couldn’t control his bladder. That he was so pathetic.
It would have been good to think it was remorse but you don’t pish your pants out of guilt or repentance. Fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. He cowered before his Lord out of dread and his Lord was me.
There was plenty I could have said to him but nothing came out. It was all there in my head but unsaid.
I looked at him. Stared at him. His head was on his chest now. It would have been so easy to hit him. Punch him, strangle him, kick him in the head, break his legs. So tempting. But I already knew what I was going to do and so it seemed did Wallace Ogilvie. Or perhaps he simply knew that he was going to die.
I stood over him, waiting until he lifted his head and looked at me with his red, pleading eyes. I nodded at him. It was now.
I turned and walked away, closing the door behind me. There was a window cut into the door so that I could see Wallace Ogilvie and he could see me. I stood for a few moments, looking at him and catching my own reflection in the glass. I looked calm apart from my eyes. They looked strained, wild.
I threw the switch. It was out of Wallace Ogilvie’s view but he would soon know that I had done it.
I stood, watched and waited. My eyes were on his, his on me. I wanted to see the reaction, the first sign of realization. I wanted to see him twitch.
Ten minutes and nothing. Maybe the unit had lain idle too long. I began to wonder if it was working properly.
Fifteen minutes and I was sure it wasn’t operational. I began to wonder if I could fix it. I’d no idea where to start. It would be terrible. It was all going wrong.
Then he twitched. It was just a shake of a shoulder. A single shiver. It was enough.
A surge of exhilaration and anticipation ran through me. He shivered with cold and I shivered with excitement.
I spoke to the glass in front of me. I spoke to him knowing that he probably couldn’t hear.
‘The normal body temperature of an adult human is 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. Your core temperature is already less. But I guess you
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