They had been waiting for him when he came home from work
on the Tuesday evening, grabbed him as soon as he came in
through the front door. He was aware of two people,
thought there might have been a third. He was also aware,
sure as he was of his own name, that he was going to die.
He’d told them he didn’t know the answers to their
questions. That he hadn’t been involved hadn’t even been
there. Didn’t recognise the names they threw at him, the
accusations. At first they’d refused to believe him,
later, when they’d realised he was telling the truth –
and how could he not? The pain…the pain was just too much
to bear. He realised that they didn’t really care.
No, even after they had realised he was telling the truth
and he had finished begging for his life, knowing it
wouldn’t do a damn of good, they didn’t let him alone.
In truth, he was already too lost in the agony to know
what they were asking him, but he would have told them
anything by then, had he known it. Anything. And maybe he
did.
Had he understood, had he been able to take anything in,
he would have been glad that the pair were so inept. That
they couldn’t keep him alive. That their expertise was in
inflicting pain, not in keeping their subject conscious
and living. The end came relatively fast; unconsciousness
and then death.
They left him hanging there, blood pooling on the kitchen
floor. No one had seen them arrive and no one saw them
leave. The quiet road, the silent house, all seemed
unchanged and as civilised and suburban as it had ever
done
