Read Online The Body at the Tower by Y. S. Lee - Free Book Online Page B

everything in her and didn’t bother to disguise it. All her senses were heightened, in this moment: she heard the different layers of traffic, both on the river and in the streets just beyond the site walls; felt the dank heaviness of the air on her forehead and the coarse fabric of her shirt against her neck; tasted the bitterness of rage in her mouth; and amidst the sticky, complicated smells of the city, she smelled something new and sharp and warm. Something ammoniac…
    Beside her, Jenkins whimpered very quietly and she suddenly understood what had happened. A glance confirmed it: his trousers had a darker patch that clung to his leg, and a small pool of urine was collecting beside his right foot.
    Keenan hadn’t missed it, either. A sadistic sneer twisted his mouth and he stared at Jenkins, inspecting him carefully as he might a defective tool. “You dirty little scoundrel. Your mummy lets you do that at home, does she?”
    Jenkins made a choked, rattling sound in his throat.
    “What was that?”
    Mary stared at Jenkins, willing him to buck up. The more fear he showed, and the less control he had over his body and his voice, the more Keenan would enjoy this and the more vicious energy he would put into it. But Jenkins was scared witless. He could no more control his bladder and his voice than Mary could the weather.
    “No answer?” Keenan’s voice was still ominously soft.
    Jenkins was shaking now, a shivering so violent that his teeth began to chatter.
    “Disgusting,” said Keenan. “Give him here, Smith.”
    In one swift motion, Keenan seized Jenkins and yanked his wet breeches to the ground. Any pity Mary might have felt for the boy was now consumed in her own burgeoning sense of panic. This was it. In a few minutes, she would be publicly, literally, exposed. A fine trembling began in her throat, then spread to her limbs. She fought it desperately but not well enough. Her lungs squeezed tight. She couldn’t get enough air.
    “Easy,” murmured Reid under his breath, pressing firmly on her shoulders. “Easy, lad.”
    He sounds as if he’s talking to a horse , she thought hysterically.
    The belt really did whistle faintly as it sliced through the air; that wasn’t merely a cliché. As it struck Jenkins’s pale, skinny rump, it made a meaty, loud thwock that resounded clearly across the now-still site. All had downed tools; all were watching. Apart from the rhythm of the belt – shweeeee-THWOCK, shweeeee-THWOCK – the only sounds were Jenkins’s half-suppressed screams and Keenan’s grunts of exertion.
    Two strokes.
    Three.
    With the fourth, a bright seam of blood welled up. Mary forced herself to keep looking, to take in the details: perfect stillness all around, men practically holding their breaths rather than disrupt Keenan’s show. Nobody moved to step in; no one opened a mouth to object. They were enjoying themselves, the hateful pigs.
    Five.
    Small rivulets of blood dripped down the boy’s legs, onto his breeches, staining the dusty ground.
    Six.
    Jenkins stopped shrieking and began merely to cry, a keening, childish sound that sliced through Mary’s contained panic. What would a brutal beating do to such a fragile, undergrown boy? Would Keenan stop before he caused permanent damage, or did he not care?
    Seven.
    Was there nothing she could do? Nothing at all?
    Eight.
    She tasted blood. Why? Must have bitten her lower lip.
    “Keenan.” The voice came from just above her head.
    Schweeeee-THWOCK .
    Schweeeee-THWOCK .
    “Keenan!” More forceful, now. “Enough, man.”
    A pause in the rhythm. “Shut it, Reid.”
    A resumption. Eleven?
    Sweat trickled into her eyes, its sting a welcome distraction from her trembling limbs, her panic-squeezed lungs. The pain of the lashing didn’t matter; all she wanted was for her unmasking to be over and done with.
    And then a cry, shrill but authoritative: “What the blazes do you think you’re doing?”
    What does it look like? Fortunately, the