I grip the edges of the tub and count the seconds in my head. Every muscle in my body burns from the cold.
“Again,” Coyne repeats.
I rattle off the ingredients for the bombs they taught us how to make. These parts come easily to me. The lists. Remembering things. I can do that. When the lady in the room used to teach us things, she always said I had good attention to detail.
Farrell nods in approval and then points at the weapon hanging over his shoulder. I list off the steps to assemble it and then repeat them in reverse.
“Time’s up,” he calls out.
I jolt out of the ice bath and nearly collapse.
“Keep moving,” Coyne says.
My movements are clumsy and awkward. But I keep at it.
“Ye did well,” Farrell says. “Now to the pit.”
I freeze in place and shake my head.
“And for that ye can enjoy an extra day’s accommodation in there.”
His words force me into action again.
I walk with Coyne in front of me and Farrell follows behind. They open up the door to the pit, and though my body wants to hesitate, my mind is already following orders. Before I climb down inside they give me another pill. And then they lock me in, sacrificing me to the blackness.
It isn’t the dark that I’m not keen on. I’ve grown accustomed to living in the darkness. It’s the uncertainty of what will come with it this time. Every month, I progress to a new stage of training. A new phase of uncertainty. And every visit to the pit can only end one way.
They’ll send another man down. Another man I have to kill. I can’t see them, and they can’t see me. But we both have only one option. Kill or be killed. I always do the killing.
And then they leave them with me. Sometimes for days. The rats come out. And the bugs. And the smell. But that isn’t even the worst of it. It’s the sound I don’t like. The ones I always hear.
The speakers come on, and I cover my ears before it begins. But it makes no difference. I still hear it anyway.
The screaming. An endless soundtrack of wailing. Tortured sobs. Crying babies. My heart is beating too hard. Too fast. It’s going to explode. And then it turns to ringing.
***
I wake to the sound of my phone and something wet against my cheek. When I open my eyes, I’m met with big brown ones. The dog I still haven’t worked out what to do with.
“What are ye after?” I grunt.
She head-butts my cheek and then barks. I shove it away and reach for my phone, only to have it barge in from the other side. She wiggles her arse and hops back and forth before flopping onto her back and flashing her belly at me.
The phone rings again and I groan as I bring it to my ear.
“Aye?”
“Fitzy,” Crow chirps from the other end of the line. “Did I wake ye?”
“You did.”
The dog barks again and I try to quiet her.
“What the hell is that?” Crow asks.
“It’s a bleeding dog,” I tell him. “What does it sound like?”
“When did you get a dog?”
“Did ye have a reason for this call?” I grumble. “Or did ye just ring to give me an inquisition?”
“Open your front door,” is his reply.
The line goes dead and I tug on a pair of track pants and a tee shirt. The dog follows me to the door and starts to have a go at Crow when he steps inside.
“What sort of dog is that?” he tilts his head to the side to examine her. “Is there something wrong with its wee legs?”
“Conor thinks it’s a Corgi,” I tell him. “Google said their legs are supposed to be wee. I looked it up.”
“What the hell are ye doing with it?” he asks.
“It was at Donny’s flat.”
“So ye decided to keep it? Do you even know what to do with a bloody dog?”
“I haven’t a clue,” I admit. “That’s why Conor feeds it.”
“Well it looks like it’s hungry now,” Crow points out.
“Is that why she’s carrying on like that?”
He shrugs. “What the hell do I know about dogs?”
I walk to the kitchen and grab the bag of dog food off the counter, scanning the label on the back. “It doesn’t say how much to give her.”
“Ah Jaysus, Fitz.” Crow laughs. “I don’t know how ye manage to keep yourself alive let alone a bloody animal.”
He grabs the bag and fills the dish on the floor and then makes himself comfortable at my kitchen table. I don’t have much in the way of furniture, but it serves a purpose. I mainly only use the place to sleep if I’m lucky. Though I’ve been spending most of the last couple of months on Crow’s sofa while I watched over Mack.
“I spoke to Niall this morning,” Crow says, getting straight down to business. He knows I’ve got no patience for small talk.
“Aye, and what did he say?”