turned away shaking his head in obvious distress.
Naked, the folds of the older man’s flesh hung down. He screamed for mercy, and Linda tutted. The sweet, savage sound of his bones and joints cracking echoed across the stillness, followed by the man’s choked-off scream.
Moments later, the younger man shouted for help.
“Oh!” Linda wrinkled her nose. “Someone's lost control of themselves. How,” she searched for a word that wasn't too judgemental, “…unfortunate.”
“Jilly Robert’s dad says,” Abi said, “That those who can't take the pain shouldn't seek to gain.”
“Good for Jilly Robert's dad,” Tom said.
A medic came running.
The Inquisitor called to him, “The suspect dislocated his shoulder. I think it brought on a heart attack!” The Inquisitor was young, maybe performing his first unsupervised interrogation, or he'd have kept it quiet. Instead a crowd gathered as word spread faster than an electric current.
The medic fumbled the shackles loose, then pounded on the old man's chest. “Take over!” He told the Inquisitor, and pulling a hypodermic and small bottle from his bag, filled the hypo. He injected the patient, waited thirty seconds and checked the man's pulse.
He looked up at the young torturer, and shook his head.
The torturer slumped, face twisted in anguish.
The second man had stood by, chewing on a knuckle. When the medic shook his head, he turned to the crowd, arms outstretched. “Oh, torture is so good for the soul, isn’t it?” His voice was ragged, gravelly with emotion. “Tell that to him!”
The crowd started to edge away. “No one wants to risk being linked to sedition,” Tom muttered, leading Abi away. His guts roiled again in sympathy and he bit off a whimper, fighting a rising tide of bile.
The young man wailed, “What’s the matter with you all?” He shook off the young torturer’s hand, and dodged a constable who had wandered over. “Are you all sheep?”
The crowd answered silently by scattering in all directions.
The Inquisitor with the goatee who had spoken to them at the gate passed on his way to the disturbance. He leaned close to Tom as he passed and murmured, “We don't torture people for hypocrisy. I think we should. It's the worst crime of all…” leaving Tom to stare at him in alarm.
The goatee'd Inquisitor had the young man led away, still struggling and shouting until he was out of sight, when his shouts ceased abruptly.
Tom rounded on Linda. “Happy now, you’ve exposed the kids to this?” He gestured at the old man's body.
Linda said, “The children should see the truth.”
Tom thought, The truth? You wouldn’t know the truth if it leapt up and bit you on the arse! You live your cozy life, smug in your certainty, and never think about the cost of it all.
Tom pointed at Shane who was shaking, and a tearful Abi. “People dying is too much for them to see.” He took a deep breath, and then noticed a familiar shock of hair. His heart momentarily stopped, then the woman turned, and Tom saw that it wasn’t who he thought it was. He breathed again.
They drifted; passing an old man slumped in the stocks. A despairing cry arose from the mutilation tent and the flap opened to show the Inquisitor holding up a thief’s amputated hand. They bought hot-roast rolls and munched outside a news-tent, watching the state funeral of a Klansman at the Breckinridge Memorial in Dallas; on the next screen something large, black and inhuman loped through the radioactive ruins of Reykjavik. A third screen showed the streets of The Plague Lands; volunteers in quarantine suits bearing the logo of the Fist of God coalition piled up bodies. Even bloodthirsty Abi shivered, and when Tom saw Shane staring wide-eyed in horror, he ushered them on.
A large crowd gathered around it almost hid the ducking stool, except when the suspect arched above their heads before falling back. “Mum,” Shane tugged at Linda's sleeve.
Naked, the folds of the older man’s flesh hung down. He screamed for mercy, and Linda tutted. The sweet, savage sound of his bones and joints cracking echoed across the stillness, followed by the man’s choked-off scream.
Moments later, the younger man shouted for help.
“Oh!” Linda wrinkled her nose. “Someone's lost control of themselves. How,” she searched for a word that wasn't too judgemental, “…unfortunate.”
“Jilly Robert’s dad says,” Abi said, “That those who can't take the pain shouldn't seek to gain.”
“Good for Jilly Robert's dad,” Tom said.
A medic came running.
The Inquisitor called to him, “The suspect dislocated his shoulder. I think it brought on a heart attack!” The Inquisitor was young, maybe performing his first unsupervised interrogation, or he'd have kept it quiet. Instead a crowd gathered as word spread faster than an electric current.
The medic fumbled the shackles loose, then pounded on the old man's chest. “Take over!” He told the Inquisitor, and pulling a hypodermic and small bottle from his bag, filled the hypo. He injected the patient, waited thirty seconds and checked the man's pulse.
He looked up at the young torturer, and shook his head.
The torturer slumped, face twisted in anguish.
The second man had stood by, chewing on a knuckle. When the medic shook his head, he turned to the crowd, arms outstretched. “Oh, torture is so good for the soul, isn’t it?” His voice was ragged, gravelly with emotion. “Tell that to him!”
The crowd started to edge away. “No one wants to risk being linked to sedition,” Tom muttered, leading Abi away. His guts roiled again in sympathy and he bit off a whimper, fighting a rising tide of bile.
The young man wailed, “What’s the matter with you all?” He shook off the young torturer’s hand, and dodged a constable who had wandered over. “Are you all sheep?”
The crowd answered silently by scattering in all directions.
The Inquisitor with the goatee who had spoken to them at the gate passed on his way to the disturbance. He leaned close to Tom as he passed and murmured, “We don't torture people for hypocrisy. I think we should. It's the worst crime of all…” leaving Tom to stare at him in alarm.
The goatee'd Inquisitor had the young man led away, still struggling and shouting until he was out of sight, when his shouts ceased abruptly.
Tom rounded on Linda. “Happy now, you’ve exposed the kids to this?” He gestured at the old man's body.
Linda said, “The children should see the truth.”
Tom thought, The truth? You wouldn’t know the truth if it leapt up and bit you on the arse! You live your cozy life, smug in your certainty, and never think about the cost of it all.
Tom pointed at Shane who was shaking, and a tearful Abi. “People dying is too much for them to see.” He took a deep breath, and then noticed a familiar shock of hair. His heart momentarily stopped, then the woman turned, and Tom saw that it wasn’t who he thought it was. He breathed again.
They drifted; passing an old man slumped in the stocks. A despairing cry arose from the mutilation tent and the flap opened to show the Inquisitor holding up a thief’s amputated hand. They bought hot-roast rolls and munched outside a news-tent, watching the state funeral of a Klansman at the Breckinridge Memorial in Dallas; on the next screen something large, black and inhuman loped through the radioactive ruins of Reykjavik. A third screen showed the streets of The Plague Lands; volunteers in quarantine suits bearing the logo of the Fist of God coalition piled up bodies. Even bloodthirsty Abi shivered, and when Tom saw Shane staring wide-eyed in horror, he ushered them on.
A large crowd gathered around it almost hid the ducking stool, except when the suspect arched above their heads before falling back. “Mum,” Shane tugged at Linda's sleeve.
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