Accused Page 2

  ‘All right, let’s go,’ he said.

  I cringed away from him until the hard, cold brickwork was hurting my shoulders. ‘No,’ I whimpered. ‘Not again. Not again.’

  ‘There’s two ways of coming,’ he said, smiling gently like he was getting ready to enjoy himself. ‘Which way is it gonna be?’

  The sheer hopelessness of everything washed over me. There was no escape. Every nerve in my body shrieked a protest at going with them. But to resist would be worse.

  He made a slight gesture, and the two uniformed figures behind him began to move towards me. I knew what they would do, and almost before I knew it, I was on my feet, whimpering again. ‘No. No. No! Don’t touch me. I’m coming.’

  The big guy chuckled again, that same, slow, evil chuckle. He stepped to one side, motioned to me to go out ahead of him.

  My knees were like chalk, crumbling and uncertain. And as I took shaky, uncertain paces, the clink of chains and the chaffing soreness of my wrists and ankles hammered in at me again the hopelessness of everything, the impossibility of escape, the grim finality of it all.

  The two uniformed figures closed in on me, each taking an arm, fingers strong and corded, biting deep into my arms. Their shadowed faces were emotionless, but I could sense the smouldering, bitter hatred inside them, the hate that was seeking an excuse to exert itself. I sweated with fear, my feet dragging and my hands trembling.

  It wasn’t far to go, and I knew the way. I’d been there a coupla times before. One of them opened the door and they half-dragged, half-pushed me inside.

  It was the same, airless, windowless, white-washed stone room. The same small wooden table and wooden chairs scattered around the room. One of them dragged a heavy wooden chair into the middle of the room, motioned me to climb upon my throne of torture.

  I shuffled over to it, the chains between my ankles and wrists clinking mockingly. And there was hopeless dread inside me, a bitter, anguished fear of the inevitable. There was nothing but suffering and suffering. My shoulders drooped, my head hung heavy, the chains were an enormous weight that weighed down my limbs. I sat there, dull and hopeless, waiting while one of the guards closed the door and the other switched on the light above my head.

  I was expecting it. But even so, it hit me with the impact of a flame thrower. A white, heatless light smashing down at me with brutalising force, making my muscles knot and jump, re-creating in a split second all the atmosphere of pain, terror and panic that was associated with that white glare.

  They waited in the shadows beyond the halo thrown by that powerful, torturing light, watched my body jerking and twitching, and gauged the terror and apprehension I was undergoing. They waited until my jangling nerves had partially soothed, until the jerking of my muscles had become mere twitches.

  Then, moving quietly and silently like a slithering snake, the fat guy moved around back of me.

  I tensed, felt my muscles knot, closed my eyes and waited in numbed apprehension.

  He came up behind me, so close I could feel his breath hot on the back of my neck. He said, in a voice that throbbed with hatred: ‘You’ve got me to look after you

  Today.’

  I remained tight-lipped, tried to relax so the pain would wash over me, carrying away the numbed and agonised tyrant that my mind would become.

  ‘You sonofabitch,’ he said quietly, and he spat out the words with a quiet venom that terrified me, although I had become accustomed to the hatred in the words and eyes of these men.

  ‘You goddam sonofabitch,’ he snarled.

  I took a deep breath, tried to slump and relax my nerves.

  His fingers bit deep into the back of my neck like steel forceps, holding, gouging and twisting nerve centres, turning my body rigid, shoulders hunched and my lungs motionless.

  ‘You swine,’ he snarled, and the fingers gouged deeper, like he wanted to tear out my nerve centres by the roots. Under the sharp, almost unbearable agony of it, I tried to drag away from him.

  His other hand was ready, fingers sliding across my scalp, grasping hair with steel fingers so my head was held immovable, the piercing, shrieking pain gouging ever deeper into my neck and brain.

  I did it without thinking, used my chained hands to fight myself free from the nauseating agony. And immediately a savage jerk dragged me sideways off balance, so that I crashed to the stone floor with the chair on top of me.

  He stood over me, looming immense, a huge bulk blocking out part of the glaring light, his fingers crooked in uncontrollable anger.

  ‘You still wanna kill, damn you?’ he snarled. ‘You still wanna kill, huh?’

  I knew what was coming, tensed myself and closed my eyes. When the toe of his boot drove into my side, it was pain, but an old pain, a familiar pain. It was as though I had no ribs. There was just a hole, and the toe-cap penetrated inside me through the open, tender wound.

  ‘All right. Climb back on that chair.’

  That was the subtlety of it. Again and again climbing back on to the chair. It was like being led again and again to the place of torture.

  I stumbled to my feet awkwardly, the inevitable chains clinking between my ankles and wrists. I fumbled awkwardly with the chair, because of that hole in my side. It caused me to bend over sideways like I was deformed..

  ‘On the chair,’ he snarled.

  I slumped on the chair, heard my lungs rasping, the breath making a hoarse sound in my throat.

  He was there behind me, his fingers resting gently on my shoulders. His gentle touch made me shudder afresh.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he demanded.

  I licked my lips, said nothing. What was the use. Everything was hopeless.

  His strong fingers came over my shoulders, down around my neck, gripping the lapels of my jacket so he could draw it back, pull the jacket down over my shoulders, half-imprisoning my upper arms.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked again, softly and menacingly.

  I still said nothing.

  His arms were around front of me, undid the buttons of my shirt, dragged my shirt down over my shoulders. I could feel my skin pricking like it was over-sensitised,

  and I moaned like the arc-light beating down on my flesh was a searing ray.

  ‘I’m asking you for the third time,’ he said softly. ‘What’s your name?’

  It wouldn’t make any difference if I told him. It would happen just the same. I just hung my head and waited.

  There was no way of knowing what it would be, and there was no sound to warn me. I was so beaten, so shocked by the nightmare of the last forty-eight hours, that I hadn’t even the nerve to look over my shoulder.

  Yet even though I was expecting it, when it did come, the sheer, blinding, shocking agony of it made me convulse, throw myself bodily off the chair, writhe and scream and greet the insanity of agony nibbling like some fiery demon at the outer edges of my mind.

  They let me lie there until my pain-drenched body ceased twitching and quivering. I pushed myself up into a sitting position, the sweat running down my forehead, trickling down into my eyes, causing them to smart. But the seat of the pain was in my shoulder, a white hot needle burning through flesh and muscle. My lips were quirking as I lifted my heavy head, peered up at the heavy bulk overshadowing me, searched for the means by which he could inflict such shocking agony with such ease.

  I should have known it would have been something subtle. Something that would show no scars, something that inflicted great suffering without visible effects.

  It was a glistening, two inch needle, slender and evilly pointed, spliced into a wooden haft. I’d been stabbed with it, greedy metal biting into my shoulder, skewering flesh and metal, twisting and torturing nerves and sinew but showing only the merest pinpoint of blood instead of the tell-tale marks of unlawful torture.

  He said softly, like it was an invitation to make myself at home: ‘Get up. Sit on the chair.’

  I couldn’t face it again. I’d been writhing for two or three
minutes in a mist of agony. I just couldn’t make myself get to my feet and sit on the chair, my quivering flesh yet awaiting another stab.

  He moved in quietly, swung his foot. His toe-cap smashed through the hole in my side, sent fiery trailers scorching through my body.

  ‘Get up,’ he snarled.

  I wanted to be sick. I just couldn’t go on taking it. No human being could go on taking it. The next time, his toe-cap seemed to penetrate into my stomach, exploded there, sending sparks of white hot pain shooting through my body to the tips of the extremities.

  ‘On your feet,’ he said again, just as quietly, and this time it wasn’t necessary, because I was already on my knees, my body twisted, doubled, yet blindly clambering to its feet, reaching for the chair.

  He whispered. ‘You aren’t very smart at answering questions, are you?’

  I breathed hard, wished I could faint before they killed me. This was more than human flesh and blood could stand.

  ‘The name’s Farran, isn’t it,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ I grunted.

  ‘Henry Warren Farran?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I breathed.

  He was around in front of me, right up close, thrusting his heavy, greasy face towards me. There was murderous hatred in his black eyes. ‘A killer,’ he snarled. ‘Kill like a mad dog. You’re a killer, Farran. A mad killer.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I panted desperately. ‘That’s what everyone says, but it s not true. I’m not ....’

  He stabbed again, this time stabbing down at my thigh so hard that the wooden haft bruised my flesh through my trousers and the needle skewered muscle and flesh like a jagged shaft of glass gouging deep into my leg.

  They left me for ten minutes to recover from that. The fat guy smoked a cigarette, watched me all the time, like he was calculating just how much more I could take.

  I was exhausted, the strength drawn out of me so I was weak like a sick child.

  He tossed away the butt end of his cigarette, crossed over to me, grasped a handful of my hair and jerked my bead up. dragged me to my feet.

  ‘You’re Farran, aren’t you?’ he demanded again.

  I was so weak the words could barely escape my lips.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re a crazy killer!’

  I licked my lips, said nothing.

  ‘Why d’ya kill Freidman?’ he stormed suddenly. ‘A regular guy who gave you a job, looked after you, treated you swell. Why d’you kill him!’

  ‘He … I …’

  ‘For a few hundred bucks,’ he snarled explosively. ‘For a few lousy, measly bucks, you bumped off the guy that befriended you.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I panted. ‘You don’t understand the way ....’

  ‘Sure,’ he rasped. ‘I understand. Just the way you’re gonna understand. This is where you start in understanding.’

  I wasn’t prepared for it. Even if I had been, I couldn’t have done anything about it. His fingers were still locked in my hair as he swung his fist, swung it with all his strength, against the side of my jaw, slapping me off my feet, spinning sideways, splaying on the floor with my head, mind and the room, all revolving together in a loud, rushing noise.

  At the end of the long, roaring tunnel, his words came rolling down towards me, threatening and filtering through a blur of blinding light.

  ‘Freidman,’ said the rolling voice.

  ‘Freidman,’ the voice echoed, long and down, down into the depths of my mind and soul.

  ‘Mad killer!’

  ‘Freidman.’

  ‘Freidman.’

  ‘Freidman!’

  CHAPTER TWO

  I climbed aboard the truck when it stopped to re-fuel. I was quick and the driver didn’t see me. He stopped twice after that to eat, and I didn’t dare move, because I didn’t want him to throw me off.

  But luck was dead against me. Because, maybe an hour after the last stop, I fell asleep, and a pot-hole the truck bumped over, caught me unawares, catapulted me out from beneath the cover of a tarpaulin, rolled me over among the crates.

  Yeah, luck was against me. Because the driver looked behind to make sure everything was all right and saw me.

  He jammed on his brakes.

  I’d already been caught once by a truck driver. I was over the tailboard and sprinting back along the road by the time he climbed down out of his cabin.

  He stood looking at me, hands on his hips, scowling balefully.

  I watched him apprehensively from a distance, ready to start running if necessary.

  He walked slowly around back of the truck, climbed up over the tailboard, checked to make sure I hadn’t damaged any of the goods he was carrying. Then he turned around, stared at me, shook his fist.

  I watched him warily.

  He said angrily. ‘I could get sacked for having you ride back here.’

  I kept my distance, said nothing.

  ‘You can start walking now, you sonofabitch,’ he snarled. ‘It’s miles to the next town. I hope you enjoy it.’

  He jumped down over the tailboard, walked around to the driver’s cabin, watching me all the time. He was worried I was gonna try boarding the truck again.

  I wasn’t gonna risk it. He was broad-shouldered, with hands like hams. He could smash my jaw with one slam. He watched me through the driving mirror as he started the engine, got the truck rolling, and there wasn’t anything I could do except stand in the middle of the road and watch him slowly pull away from me.

  I watched until all that was left of him was a puff of dust on the road ahead. Then I sat at the side of the road and took off my boots.

  It was hot, the sun beating down with a heat that could boil my brains in my skull. Up till now I’d been protected by the tarpaulin. Now I was out from the shade, it was like I using roasted.

  I looked around hopelessly. The narrow ribbon of dusty road stretched in front and behind as far as the eye could see, flanked either side by sandy scrubland that shimmered in the heat. The scrub was dried up and brittle in the hot air that clogged and choked like invisible cotton wool.

  I tied the laces of my boots together, stripped off my jacket, slung them across my shoulders and started walking.

  The dusty road was hot, burning. But walking barefooted was more comfortable than having my swollen feet chafed by hard leather.

  I kept walking, kept following the road.

  It had been a lousy break. This was just about the worst possible place to be ditched. That truck driver hadn’t been joking. The last town we’d passed had

  been at least thirty miles behind us. This was a second-class road, and the chances of being given a lift were few. It looked like I was going to have an uncomfortable

  twenty-four hours ahead of me before reaching the next town.

  The sun beat down remorselessly.

  I kept on walking, walking, walking.

  I was sweating, the sun beating down and my mouth parched; my nostrils clogged with the dust kicked up by my sore feet.

  I don’t know how long I’d been walking when I saw it in the distance. Probably I’d been walking for hours. It was not much more than a shack at the side of the road with a sun porch built at the front.

  Maybe a coupla hundred yards before I reached it, I saw the weather-beaten, sun-dried sign that read: ‘Snacks.’

  I kept on walking, came up level with the shack.

  It looked deserted, desolate. The dried earth in front of the veranda was caked hard where cars and trucks had pulled in. And it was a real dump. The kinda place no-one would stop if there was an alternative. And I hadn’t seen any competition around.

  A sign hung over the porch. It read: A. Freidman – Snacks.

  My nostrils were clogged with dust, my tongue dry like a piece of leather, and my throat lined with sand paper. I dug down in my trouser pockets, counted my money. I had seventy-five cents.

  It was getting dark now. And I’d heard that the night can be paralysingly cold in the open country after
the heat of the day.

  Hobbling painfully now, I crossed to the veranda steps, climbed them slowly, crossed the sun porch, hesitated a moment with my hand on the wire-gauze door before, with sudden resolution, I thrust at it, pushed inside.

  It wasn’t much more than a normal-sized room with chairs and tables scattered around. A counter ran along the back of the room and two doors led off from behind the counter, one on the left and one on the extreme right. As I opened the door, a bell jangled alarmingly, and almost at once a door on the right opened. A burly, big-built man, sweating visibly through his grimy, collarless shirt, stared at me sullenly. ‘Just in time, he grunted. ‘We’re just gonna close up; we shut at sundown.’

  ‘I won’t keep you more than a minute,’ I said, desperately anxious not to be a nuisance.

  ‘That’s okay,’ he grunted, wiping his hands on his damp shirt ‘What d’ya want?’

  I gulped, felt the dust coating my throat. ‘A glass of water,’ I said.

  He stopped wiping his hands on his shirt, stared at me like he thought I was crazy. I became acutely conscious of my dishevelled hair, my unwashed face, the dusty boots slung over my shoulders and my grimy shirt that hadn’t been washed in days.

  He said abruptly: ‘How d’ya get here, kid? This is fifty miles from anywhere.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Walked.’

  ‘Walked!’

  ‘Fella gave me a lift part of the way,’ I mumbled. ‘I decided I’d walk a bit for exercise.’

  He was grinning now; grinning at my stupidity. Grinning because I thought he would believe me.

  ‘Thirsty, huh?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah!’

  He didn’t say anything, turned on his heel, disappeared into the room behind him. It was probably the kitchen. A few moments later, he came out with a glass of water, slid it across the counter towards me.

  I sipped it slowly, wanting to savour it, relish every last drop of it, enjoy the cleansing feeling as it sluiced down my throat, cool and fresh, washing away the hot, gritty dust that was choking me. And while I drank, he was giving me the once-over with a kind of mocking, knowing grin.

  I gave him the once-over too, judged him to be maybe forty-five, running to fat, with grey hairs freely sprinkling the sides of his temples, and bushy black eyebrows that cast his deep-set brown eyes into shadow. He had a long nose that was hard and cruel and matched his hard, cruel lips that were now twisted in a malicious sneer.