Rentboy

distant, and sounds became muffled.
    Looking at his father’s face, he whispered, “Dad?” The stony stare he got in response was the
    same one he had seen many times before. It was that look of blame; if Fox would just be more of a
    man, more like Baillie, everything would be fine. It was that look that said, You are a disappointment
    to me.
    Maputwa turned on the tap and soaked the towel before wringing out some of the water. Then,
    standing in front of Fox, he wrapped the sodden towel tightly around his head. It took a second for
    him to realize what was happening, and when he did, he panicked, yanking at the plastic ties holding
    him to the chair, but he was helpless. They were so tight.
    Thrashing about, he tipped the chair and felt hands gripping him roughly, righting the chair and
    holding it still. In another second the water he was inhaling from the wet towel was nearly cut off
    when something else covered it. Maputwa had wrapped the plastic bin bag over the towel and was
    twisting it tightly at his neck.
    Fox couldn’t move or breathe. Fear and panic shot through his muscles and brought bile up from
    his stomach into his mouth. Powerless to spit it out, he began to choke. He was going to die.
    Do anything to me. Rape me, beat me, but don’t take my air.
    Survival instincts kicked in when death was imminent. In an attempt to dislodge the towel and
    bag, Fox shook his head so violently he felt as if he had dislocated the vertebrae in his neck. All the
    time he could hear Eddie screaming his name.
    “That’s enough. Stop now.”
    The voice filtering through his fear was his father’s. The bag and towel came off at once.
    Gratitude flooded him. Even his father could not watch him being tortured and was sorry he had
    suggested it. The sudden light after the moments of blinding darkness caused Fox to close his eyes as
    he gasped for breath. Burning yellow bile spilled from his mouth down the front of his shirt.
    It was over. But it wasn’t. The sight of the bin bag lying on the floor brought on a fresh wave of
    nausea. Fox couldn’t remember eating that day, but there was something in his stomach, because it
    came up now, spilling down his shirt and between his feet as he leaned forward. The water he had
    inhaled dripped from his nose. Even when the water had cleared and his stomach was empty, he
    gasped for air as if it had been cut off again.
    The fear in the pit of his belly had become a knot tightening like a tourniquet. He feared it would
    never go away again. A tear ran down his cheek when he looked at his father’s face on the screen.
    He must love me, because even he couldn’t watch me being tortured.
    “Dr. Atherton, are you ready to talk to us?” Baillie asked.
    Fox looked at Eddie, who nodded. “Yes, I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just don’t hurt
    Fox again.”
    “Eddie, don’t. So many innocent people will die. I can’t bear to step on an ant, and you’ve got
    more morals that all these arseholes put together. We can’t let people die.” As he said the words, he
    felt vaguely safe. William Baillie would put an end to this. He would not let them hurt his son again.
    But what if they turned on Eddie? He could not see his father because of the angle the iPad was being
    held at. “Sir, please make them stop.”
    Howard leaned down into Eddie’s face. “Dr. Atherton, are you ready to give me the formula? If
    you are, Mr. Maputwa will release you both, and when you are done, these men will drop you at the
    nearest hospital. You really should get something done about that leg.”
    Eddie looked at Fox. “I’m going to tell them what they want. I can’t let them hurt you again.”
    “They’re not going to hurt me anymore. Dad, tell them, please.”
    “Do it again.”
    His father’s voice was clear and loud in the silent room.
    “Torture Fox again just to show these fools who they are dealing with. If I was there, I’d do it
    myself.”
    In a dream Fox watched Maputwa soak the towel for a second time. As he approached him with
    the dripping cloth, the man was grinning so broadly every one of his yellow teeth showed in his dark
    gums. The red veins in his eyes stood out like a mad Jackson Pollock painting. The numbness that had
    followed the first assault was gone in a flash. Fight-or-flight gripped Fox’s body, shooting adrenaline
    through his muscles just as it had a few minutes ago. But he could not fight them, and he could not run.
    His scream tore at his