and
said, ‘If that’s okay with you, Mr Chairman?’
The drunk man moaned and tried to move
away but stopped when he felt the boot of one of the other patrons
against his back. His face was panicked, flowering red with stress,
and by the looks of things; he had wet himself. The other men in
the club all turned and looked to the shadow man. There was a
silence now, a deep silence, one that sucked you in and took away
your breath. Simon’s heart began to race and his chest heaved with
each breath. The shadow man nodded and dropped his papers onto the
table. There was another short moan from Stevie but no one paid it
any attention. From under the counter the barman revealed a long
wooden truncheon, its grip tied with cord so as to give a better
hold. He passed this club to the Chairman who took hold of it
easily even though it looked as if it weighed a considerable
amount. Simon was finding it hard to swallow and his guts started
to churn. He had never seen a beating before, most of the time they
happened outside in the street or behind closed doors. He hoped, no
prayed, that his guts would hold up if it went the way he knew it
was going to go. The Chairman gave the truncheon a couple of swings
as if in mockery of the man that was about to get his head smashed
in by it and even though the Chairman was under the same lights as
everyone else his features were still hidden in shadow and Simon,
as much as he tried, couldn’t see the man that was hidden under
there. But he guessed that he was smiling: everyone else was.
Everyone else except him and poor Stevie Johnson.
Stevie now tried to get up but Mr
Rowling put a solid left boot onto his chest and shook his head.
The Chairman stopped swinging and pointed the truncheon to a
cleared spot on the floor. The clutter free area wasn’t shiny like
the rest of the wooden floor, this part of the floor looked dull,
scrubbed clean of any shine. Simon was sure everyone in here could
hear his breathing it was so hard and he almost screamed in sheer
terror as he realised why that bit of the floor was so dull; why no
one sat there.
Two men, Charlie and Edward, who had
been sat with Simon got up and took hold of an arm each and dragged
the poor whining soul across the floor. Simon had expected the
young man to put up more of a struggle, to be shouting and
screaming like most people would on their way to a beating, but
Stevie, though clearly scared, had given up his futile resistance
without much of a fight.
Mr Rowling then took to his seat. He
wasn’t smiling; he wasn’t anything, just a blank canvas on which to
paint whatever you wanted. The two men dropped Stevie onto the
floor. There was a wet piss smear marking his small journey and
then the two men returned to their seats and much like Mr Rowling,
their faces were clean of any emotion.
This is normal to
them Simon thought, this is a daily routine for them. Like taking a crap or
putting on a shirt. This is just a matter of course and how they
manage the village. No prisons or police, no lawful justice
here.
Stevie looked up to
the Chairman and the Chairman looked down to him and with his left
hand signalled for Stevie to stand up. There were mutterings from
the men in the audience; mutterings that seemed to give Stevie some
of the respect he had lost back . He was taking his punishment and he would learn
from it. If he didn’t learn from it then… Simon didn’t want to
think about that.
Chairman looked down on Stevie; the
truncheon swinging in his right hand.
Take it outside, take it outside,
please. Just lead him away. I don’t want to see this.
With a quick swing the truncheon flew
through the air and struck Stevie hard on his right side. It sent
him flying to floor in a spray of spittle and flaying arms and
legs. And then the rest is pretty much what you would have expected
and needs no great oratory. Redacting the punishment, Chairman nigh
on smashed the life from Stevie. The wooden truncheon thudded
against his body
said, ‘If that’s okay with you, Mr Chairman?’
The drunk man moaned and tried to move
away but stopped when he felt the boot of one of the other patrons
against his back. His face was panicked, flowering red with stress,
and by the looks of things; he had wet himself. The other men in
the club all turned and looked to the shadow man. There was a
silence now, a deep silence, one that sucked you in and took away
your breath. Simon’s heart began to race and his chest heaved with
each breath. The shadow man nodded and dropped his papers onto the
table. There was another short moan from Stevie but no one paid it
any attention. From under the counter the barman revealed a long
wooden truncheon, its grip tied with cord so as to give a better
hold. He passed this club to the Chairman who took hold of it
easily even though it looked as if it weighed a considerable
amount. Simon was finding it hard to swallow and his guts started
to churn. He had never seen a beating before, most of the time they
happened outside in the street or behind closed doors. He hoped, no
prayed, that his guts would hold up if it went the way he knew it
was going to go. The Chairman gave the truncheon a couple of swings
as if in mockery of the man that was about to get his head smashed
in by it and even though the Chairman was under the same lights as
everyone else his features were still hidden in shadow and Simon,
as much as he tried, couldn’t see the man that was hidden under
there. But he guessed that he was smiling: everyone else was.
Everyone else except him and poor Stevie Johnson.
Stevie now tried to get up but Mr
Rowling put a solid left boot onto his chest and shook his head.
The Chairman stopped swinging and pointed the truncheon to a
cleared spot on the floor. The clutter free area wasn’t shiny like
the rest of the wooden floor, this part of the floor looked dull,
scrubbed clean of any shine. Simon was sure everyone in here could
hear his breathing it was so hard and he almost screamed in sheer
terror as he realised why that bit of the floor was so dull; why no
one sat there.
Two men, Charlie and Edward, who had
been sat with Simon got up and took hold of an arm each and dragged
the poor whining soul across the floor. Simon had expected the
young man to put up more of a struggle, to be shouting and
screaming like most people would on their way to a beating, but
Stevie, though clearly scared, had given up his futile resistance
without much of a fight.
Mr Rowling then took to his seat. He
wasn’t smiling; he wasn’t anything, just a blank canvas on which to
paint whatever you wanted. The two men dropped Stevie onto the
floor. There was a wet piss smear marking his small journey and
then the two men returned to their seats and much like Mr Rowling,
their faces were clean of any emotion.
This is normal to
them Simon thought, this is a daily routine for them. Like taking a crap or
putting on a shirt. This is just a matter of course and how they
manage the village. No prisons or police, no lawful justice
here.
Stevie looked up to
the Chairman and the Chairman looked down to him and with his left
hand signalled for Stevie to stand up. There were mutterings from
the men in the audience; mutterings that seemed to give Stevie some
of the respect he had lost back . He was taking his punishment and he would learn
from it. If he didn’t learn from it then… Simon didn’t want to
think about that.
Chairman looked down on Stevie; the
truncheon swinging in his right hand.
Take it outside, take it outside,
please. Just lead him away. I don’t want to see this.
With a quick swing the truncheon flew
through the air and struck Stevie hard on his right side. It sent
him flying to floor in a spray of spittle and flaying arms and
legs. And then the rest is pretty much what you would have expected
and needs no great oratory. Redacting the punishment, Chairman nigh
on smashed the life from Stevie. The wooden truncheon thudded
against his body
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