My arms are stretched above my head, but I can no longer feel them. My legs are keen for the reprieve from standing, even it if it is only to kneel in broken glass. In the two years since my training began, I’ve come to know that life is simply trading one pain for another.
There is never comfort. Not even for one moment. Because operatives are not made in beds of roses. That’s what Farrell told me when they took me from the only four walls I’d ever known. One house, four beds, four other lads. Lads I’m not supposed to speak to.
I think I was eight at the time. They always start training at eight, Farrell said.
I’m ten now. Ten.
I don’t feel ten.
Farrell glances down at me in shame, and it burns through me. I cast my eyes to the floor and wait for the punishment. My shoulders sag and I bow my head in defeat. My eyelids are growing too heavy, and I’m afraid of falling asleep. Every bone aches. My skin burns, and I tremble with each movement.
Without another word, Farrell releases the cuffs holding my wrists in place. The resulting fall smacks my face against the concrete. I can’t move. My cheek burns and I reckon it’s bleeding. The sound of Farrell’s boots echo off the floor as he moves around behind me.
He pulls my trousers up from around my ankles and I try to jerk away from him. Coyne presses his boot into the flat of my back, keeping me pinned to the floor. And then I hear the buzzing of the cattle prod.
I find a dark spot on the wall to stare at before he jabs at the soles of my feet. But it doesn’t help. Nothing ever helps. There’s only pain.
Pain. Blackness. Pain. Blackness.
I like the blackness.
Water splashes on my face, and I startle awake. Farrell is standing over me, shouting out orders again.
“Get up.”
“I can’t,” I tell him.
It’s not a lie.
He nods at Coyne and they both heave me up by my arms. I’m naked now. They’ve taken my clothes again, so I know what follows. They stuff my hands back through the cuffs that stretch my arms overhead and it requires me to stand on the balls of my feet to maintain the position. The burns are so bad I feel on the verge of passing out again. But I know I can’t.
Coyne appears with the hose. He sprays me with cold water for a long time. My body is shivering, but I try to focus on sucking some of it into my mouth. I’m so thirsty.
The hose shuts off, and Coyne looks to me and then back at Farrell.
“He’s fading.”
Farrell nods and then retrieves another pill from his pocket. I don’t like the pills. Anything but the pills. I squeeze my lips together, but he forces it inside my mouth anyway. It tastes bitter on my tongue, and there’s no choice but to swallow it.
My heart beats too fast, and my eyes feel like they are going to pop out of my skull. Farrell walks around behind me and pulls the noose around my neck again. It’s tied to the wall behind me, with just enough give that I have to stand completely straight.
He slaps me on the cheek and they walk towards the door. The one that leads to places I’ve never seen before. The one I sometimes think about when they aren’t looking at me.
“Don’t fall asleep, little fella,” he says. “Or you’ll never wake up again.”
***
Unfastening the buttons of my suit, I hang the black jacket over the usual hook on the wall. Everything in this room is precisely the way I fancy it. Clean and organized, a workspace suited for my needs. I have a ritual when I walk into this room. And even with the anticipation thrumming through my veins at the moment, I ensure that I perform to my exact standards.
Every object has its place. Every step must be taken carefully and deliberately.
My watch comes off, followed by my undershirt. Two buttons on the remote, and Bach’s Cello Suites flow through the speakers. Always sixty-two decibels, the perfect volume. I’m not particularly keen on music, or noises of any sort for that matter, but this doesn’t bother me so much. When I was still a young lad, Crow’s mammy taught me that this music could help me to concentrate. Which is precisely what I could do with at the moment.
Everything is where I need it to be. That list includes my current client. Donovan is already strapped to the steel table I use for occasions such as these. His eyes are black, spewing venom at me, but he can’t manage a word with the cloth stuffed in his mouth. That’s the way I prefer it. I’ve got no notions to hear any more out of him.
“I know ye think this is for the betrayal,” I tell him as I reach for my tool case and unroll it. “It isn’t. At least, not for me.”
He attempts a mumbled response, which goes ignored. I continue to set up, running my fingers over the shiny metal pieces that feel familiar, comforting. Donovan and I haven’t had many conversations over the years. He was a part of the syndicate, but I’ve never trusted or liked him.
In general, I don’t feel the need to communicate as others do. I speak when necessary, and that does me just fine. Most of the clients who find themselves in this room don’t ever hear my voice. Only if I need to extract information from them.