fuck.
Fuck
.
He’s been duped. He can see it now – feeding him the alcohol – fuelling his stories. The thought comes to him, clear as a rash. The bastards want Vikram.
They want the man who survived.
He should have known this would happen.
His head is beginning to hurt, but maybe that’s the blood racing at his temples, a dull, insistent throb. He cases the room. The window is locked. He can see the farm outbuildings, pieces of machinery at a standstill, the pink and white poppy fields and the flat skyline beyond. So empty. Nothing out there, no one to know he is here. The sun is hard and bright and low in the west. He tries to force the window open to no avail. He rattles the door handle, kicks at it, yells, ‘Let me out!’ After a few minutes the man comes back up and bangs hard on the other side.
‘Shut up, you little shit, or I’ll make you shut up.’
Mig falls silent, genuinely afraid now. He sits quietly, head pounding, shoulders aching, trying to see a way out.
Minutes pass. Longer. The sun moves lower in the sky. It must be an hour since they locked him up in here. Mig feels a great wash of despair. The Osirian will be wondering where he’s got to. What if he moves on? What if he thinks Mig’s done a runner? He looks again at the machinery out in the yard. These two could do anything to him, kilometres from any place fit for humans to live. Crush him, chop him into pieces with an axe, grind him into food for chickens.
At last he hears the heavy tread of footsteps on the stairs, followed by the click of the lock. He waits, tense. Ready to sprint. The woman slips in quick as a wasp and locks the door again before he has a chance. She stands, back to the door, regarding him, her face inscrutable.
‘Where is the man?’
Mig shakes his head. He has to hold his ground.
‘Where is the man you keep talking about?’ she repeats.
‘I was making it up.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she says. She is very calm, but not calm the way the Osirian is calm. This one is calm the way people are when they have an endgame in sight and are prepared to be ruthless. Like the Alaskan.
He’s underestimated the situation. He should have known better. The alcohol is making him slow. Stupid.
‘I was making it up,’ he repeats, but shakily.
‘You will tell us where he is.’
Mig judges it best to keep silent. He wonders, with a flush of dizziness, if the woman is going to torture him. He wonders if he can buy some time by lying, tell her the Osirian is somewhere he isn’t, give her a location that is close enough to be plausible but far enough away for Vikram to escape.
The woman reaches inside her apron pocket. Mig tenses. A knife, she’s going to have a knife. Or pliers, to pull out his fingernails with. The guerrillas have methods like that. What if this pair have connections?
She brings out a large jar with a metal screw lid.
‘Do you know what this is?’
There is something inside the jar, Mig can see. Something thin and coiled with black and red and yellow stripes, something that he’s only ever seen in pictures. Involuntarily, he jerks backwards.
‘My brother collects snakes,’ says the woman, turning the jar this way and that, studying its contents with detached interest. ‘This one is a young coral. It’s highly venomous.’
She places the jar on the floor, between them, but within easy reach. Mig can see quite clearly the outline of the snake. Its coils, each about the width of his finger, are beginning to unwind in a slow, squirming motion, no doubt seeking to escape. Mig’s legs have gone suddenly numb; his bowels feel liquid.
‘If I release it, it will bite you,’ continues the woman. ‘And snakes don’t like being confined. It won’t be happy when I let it out.’
She’s bluffing, Mig thinks. She must be. Why the fuck would they keep one of these creatures in their house? Something that could kill you if it escaped? You’d have to be insane.
He thinks how far away they are
Fuck
.
He’s been duped. He can see it now – feeding him the alcohol – fuelling his stories. The thought comes to him, clear as a rash. The bastards want Vikram.
They want the man who survived.
He should have known this would happen.
His head is beginning to hurt, but maybe that’s the blood racing at his temples, a dull, insistent throb. He cases the room. The window is locked. He can see the farm outbuildings, pieces of machinery at a standstill, the pink and white poppy fields and the flat skyline beyond. So empty. Nothing out there, no one to know he is here. The sun is hard and bright and low in the west. He tries to force the window open to no avail. He rattles the door handle, kicks at it, yells, ‘Let me out!’ After a few minutes the man comes back up and bangs hard on the other side.
‘Shut up, you little shit, or I’ll make you shut up.’
Mig falls silent, genuinely afraid now. He sits quietly, head pounding, shoulders aching, trying to see a way out.
Minutes pass. Longer. The sun moves lower in the sky. It must be an hour since they locked him up in here. Mig feels a great wash of despair. The Osirian will be wondering where he’s got to. What if he moves on? What if he thinks Mig’s done a runner? He looks again at the machinery out in the yard. These two could do anything to him, kilometres from any place fit for humans to live. Crush him, chop him into pieces with an axe, grind him into food for chickens.
At last he hears the heavy tread of footsteps on the stairs, followed by the click of the lock. He waits, tense. Ready to sprint. The woman slips in quick as a wasp and locks the door again before he has a chance. She stands, back to the door, regarding him, her face inscrutable.
‘Where is the man?’
Mig shakes his head. He has to hold his ground.
‘Where is the man you keep talking about?’ she repeats.
‘I was making it up.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she says. She is very calm, but not calm the way the Osirian is calm. This one is calm the way people are when they have an endgame in sight and are prepared to be ruthless. Like the Alaskan.
He’s underestimated the situation. He should have known better. The alcohol is making him slow. Stupid.
‘I was making it up,’ he repeats, but shakily.
‘You will tell us where he is.’
Mig judges it best to keep silent. He wonders, with a flush of dizziness, if the woman is going to torture him. He wonders if he can buy some time by lying, tell her the Osirian is somewhere he isn’t, give her a location that is close enough to be plausible but far enough away for Vikram to escape.
The woman reaches inside her apron pocket. Mig tenses. A knife, she’s going to have a knife. Or pliers, to pull out his fingernails with. The guerrillas have methods like that. What if this pair have connections?
She brings out a large jar with a metal screw lid.
‘Do you know what this is?’
There is something inside the jar, Mig can see. Something thin and coiled with black and red and yellow stripes, something that he’s only ever seen in pictures. Involuntarily, he jerks backwards.
‘My brother collects snakes,’ says the woman, turning the jar this way and that, studying its contents with detached interest. ‘This one is a young coral. It’s highly venomous.’
She places the jar on the floor, between them, but within easy reach. Mig can see quite clearly the outline of the snake. Its coils, each about the width of his finger, are beginning to unwind in a slow, squirming motion, no doubt seeking to escape. Mig’s legs have gone suddenly numb; his bowels feel liquid.
‘If I release it, it will bite you,’ continues the woman. ‘And snakes don’t like being confined. It won’t be happy when I let it out.’
She’s bluffing, Mig thinks. She must be. Why the fuck would they keep one of these creatures in their house? Something that could kill you if it escaped? You’d have to be insane.
He thinks how far away they are
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