Dog Blood

through another doorway, stubbing my toe on a low step. This must be it. I’m led across a wide, open space by one of the men before being stood still-exposed, prone, and vulnerable. I feel him tugging on my chains, removing the shackles from my feet; then I hear the clink of metal on metal as another chain is wrapped tight around my waist, then attached to something behind me. I wait and listen as he walks away again, heading back in the direction from which we just came. I’m left here alone, swaying slightly, wrists still bound, my heavy legs still stiff and aching after endless hours of inactivity. I lean forward until the slack is taken up and the chains become tight enough to support my weight. I look down at my bare feet and the grubby, years-old carpet, crying pathetic tears of anger and desperation that bounce and splash off the floor. What will I see when they uncover my head? Will they even bother? Maybe they’ll just shoot me blind. I picture the two men standing at the other end of the room on either side of Mallon, both of them holding guns aimed in my direction. They could fire at any second. These might be my last few seconds of life. My legs feel like they’re about to give way, but I’m determined to stand proud and defiant and face this like a man. But this wasn’t how it was supposed to end…
    The pillowcase is whipped off my head and dropped on the floor. I close my eyes for a split second, then open them wide again and look up. Mallon is backing away from me. He’s the only other person here. I’m standing alone in a large, open room, chained to the back wall by an industrial-strength bracket. The fear starts to lessen, and uneasy, tentative relief takes its place, but I know it’s not over. Just because he hasn’t killed me yet doesn’t mean he’s not still going to. The room is bright and cold. There are windows along one wall, but they’re too far away and too high to see through. I can see the very tops of distant trees and the squally, rain-filled sky, nothing else.
    Mallon watches me intently, then turns and leaves. The temporary relief immediately disappears with him. What happens next? Is this another gas chamber? There’s no pipework or exhaust fans that I can see, but there are red and brown splashes and stains on the grubby wall behind me-blood, shit, and Christ knows what else. There are two filthy buckets over to my right, one of them full of water. Waterboarding? Torture? But I don’t have any secrets or restricted information, so what can they hope to get from me? Or is it worse than that? Is Mallon about to start playing masochistic games with me? Rape me, even? Whatever he decides, there’s nothing I can do about it. But when it happens I’ll fight the fucker until either he’s dead or I am.
    He’s back, this time carrying more food and a pile of clothes. My last supper?
    “Move back,” he says, watching me carefully. “Right up against the wall.”
    I do as he says, shuffling backward but not risking turning around. Mallon edges forward to the spot where I was standing, watching me constantly. He puts down the clothes and the food, then moves back again. He sits down a safe distance away.
    “Help yourself.”
    Stunned, I can’t help speaking. “What?”
    “I said help yourself. The food tastes like shit today, but it’s warm and it’s better than nothing. And the clothes are from a dead man, I’m afraid. But hey, they don’t stink of piss like yours do!”
    I don’t move. He gestures for me to come closer, and I slowly start to edge forward, moving like a bear circling a bloody lump of fresh meat in the middle of a trap. Is the food I’m shoveling into my mouth poisoned? It wasn’t before. I sit down cross-legged and start eating, too hungry to care. I can’t tell what it is I’m eating, and he’s right, it does taste like shit, but that doesn’t matter-it’s food. It’s finished too soon, and I wash it down with another bottle of stale, lukewarm water.
    “Better?” Mallon asks, stretching out on the floor and appearing surprisingly relaxed. “I’ll get you some more later. There’s soap and water for you to wash with in one of those buckets over there. Scrub yourself down, Danny. Get rid of the stink and try to make yourself feel human again.”
    I don’t argue. I get up and move over to the buckets. They’re just inside the reach of the chains. I take off my soiled shorts and rip off my shirt (the shackles on my wrists preventing