Second chapter! And warning for violence and pain. Not as bad as . . . well, not as bad as a lot of things. But still. You have been warned.
He slid onto the backseat of the car, and the door slammed behind him, and the car sped off with a screech and the man next to him smiled from behind his gun. "Well, that was easy."
Fuck. Obviously this hadn't been such a good idea.
He swallowed, looking at the barrel of the gun, inches from his face. "Look, I don't know what this is about, but I think maybe you have the wrong person," he said and to his ears it sounded surprisingly calm and reasonable.
Obviously he was in a minority. The driver laughed and the man in the backseat scowled and in a quick movement reversed his gun and struck him across the face and the impact reverberated through his headache and the edges of the world were fuzzy.
The man in the front passenger seat twisted round to look at them and his voice was annoyed. "Fuck's sake, Willy, don't hit him as hard as you did last time. We got to take him back to the hospital again, the boss'll be pissed."
Oh. So these were the bastards he had to thank for his headache. Terrific.
"Right," Willy leered. "He's delicate."
"Like fine China," he agreed lightly.
Willy made to hit him again and the guy in the front seat coughed loudly. "You wanna explain to the boss?"
"Fuck, Bill, you know what this fucker's done?" Willy asked in a whine of frustration.
He couldn't help but hope they were going to tell him.
The driver coughed. "Couple of Dawson's guys in the road ahead of us," he said.
Willy leaned forward eagerly. "Run them down," he ordered.
Bill disagreed. "Nah, we don't want to kick this whole thing off before the boss is ready."
He looked forwards, out of the windscreen, and, as the car sped past them, he recognised the men from the hospital, and they had their guns drawn, had their guns pointed at the car, and that wasn't right, that couldn't be right, surely, because that meant . . . That meant that there were two separate groups of armed assholes after him. And the first group had been shooting and obviously weren't too anxious about him being alive, and these guys had, well, kidnapped him, and he didn't know what any of it meant.
From what he'd seen so far, he hated his life.
Bill looked back at him. "Your people don't seem too happy to see you. Seems like they want you dead. You double cross Dawson?"
His people? He had people? And they wanted him dead?
He shook his head and kept his mouth shut.
Willy grinned unpleasantly at him. "Don't worry," he promised. "Soon you'll be begging us to let you tell us everything you know."
Huh. Unfortunately that wouldn't take very long at all.
After ten minutes or so of driving, the car pulled into a building and Bill and Willy hauled him out into the middle of what looked to be a chop shop. There were a variety of cars in a variety of stages of disassembly, and piles of tools. He looked round, vaguely uncomfortable.
Bill noticed him looking. "What? Did you think we'd take you back to the boss's office?"
"Mackenzie likes some things well under the radar," Willy added with a toothy grin.
"That's Mr Mackenzie to you, Willy," Bill said with a scowl.
Willy rolled his eyes and wheeled round to face Bill, and he recognised the opportunity, and he was never going to let that slip by, and he started running towards the door and he was almost there, could almost taste freedom, when the driver stepped out and punched him hard in the stomach, and even as he doubled over, he was being dragged back.
"Thanks, Harry," Willy said.
Through the pain he realised something. He knew all their names now. He knew their faces.
They weren't planning on letting him go.
"That's how you do it," Harry explained. "Fucker tries to run, you don't hit him on the head. Cos then you need to wait for him to wake up."
"And before you know it, he's run away from the hospital," Bill added, glaring at Willy.
Willy held his hands up in the air. "Woah! Water under the bridge. We got him here now. And he's going to tell us everything."
Harry deposited him on a chair with a grunt, and Willy and Bill stepped forwards with a length of rope and his arms and legs were bound to the metal frame. As surreptitiously as he could, he tested the knots and there was no give there, nothing to be done.
They stepped back and looked at him. "Scared yet?" Willy taunted.
Yes. God, yes. None of this made sense. It was like being trapped in a movie or a bad dream and he just wanted to go home . . . did he even have a home? Did he have a family? Was anyone even looking for him? Did anyone even care?
"Nah," he lied immediately. "What are you planning on doing? Singing to me? Taking me to your dentist?"
Willy's face darkened and he managed to brace himself before the punch. Still hurt though and again the deeper pain washed through his skull and he bit his lip and closed his eyes and tried to master it.
When he opened his eyes again Willy had vanished and Bill was looking at him intently. Harry was leaning against the shell of a car looking bored.
Bill stepped forwards and wrenched his head up. "Enough fucking around. Where is it?"
"Where's what?" he managed to ask. He wondered if he'd get any points for saying 'It's safe.' Oh. He really wished he hadn't thought of that. Really wished he hadn't mentioned the dentist.
The hand on his jaw tightened and it hurt. "You want to play it this way? Mr Mackenzie is very upset. And Dawson doesn't seem in a hurry to protect his thief. In case you haven't noticed, he's trying to kill you. Tell us where the list is and maybe we can work something out. Maybe you can come work for our side."
The list. The list? It meant nothing to him. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said truthfully.
Bill sighed and, unsurprisingly, seemed completely unsatisfied. He nodded to something past him, and even as he twisted round to look, Willy stepped up, carrying . . . carrying . . . he swallowed hard. Oh, God. Please. No.
"You like it?" Willy asked, brandishing the white tip of the soldering iron in his face, and he could feel the heat against his cheek, against his eye, and he leaned away from it as best he could. "Top temperature on this baby is three hundred and fifty degrees, can you believe that?"
He could feel that. "Use it to mend your Barbie dolls?"
Willy smirked and leaned over and ripped his shirt open and slowly, slowly, he moved the tip of it closer to his chest and this had gone far enough, this couldn't be happening, and he had to . . . "Wait!" he shouted urgently and, with a disappointed expression, Willy moved back.
Bill stepped forwards. "Yes? Ready to tell us?"
"I don't know!" he said desperately and Willy grinned and eagerly started towards him again. He kept talking. "I really don't, I swear! The first thing I remember was waking up in the hospital this afternoon. I don't know anything about any list, or Mackenzie or Dawson or any of this."
In the background Harry laughed. Bill shook his head. "That's the best you can come up with?" He made a gesture and Willy smirked and this time nothing was going to stop him.
For a second he didn't feel it. For a second he didn't think it was going to be so bad. Then it hit him. Then he screamed and didn't stop.
The pain was a living thing and it consumed him. For the eternity of seconds, he could feel the fire burning through his skin, his flesh, layer by layer by layer, and he could smell the burning, like cooked meat, like a barbecue on a summers day, and it hurt, and he hurt, and he was screaming, and somewhere, somewhere above him, Willy was laughing with uninhibited glee, and he was screaming and screaming and the fire burned and the pain was everything.
Willy vanished and the pain died down and Bill was in his face. "Where is the list?"
" . .. list?" he mumbled.
"You stole it from Mr Mackenzie's office and you didn't have it when we picked you up at the station. What did you do with it?"
"I don't know," he answered, lifting his head, looking the man in the eyes. "I don't know, I woke up in the hospital and - "
A gesture, a heartbeat, and Willy was there again and then the pain was there again and he was screaming . . .
His head hung low and each breath was a sob.
"Had enough?" Bill asked, almost gently.
Yes. Oh, god, yes. "I don't know what you want to know," he said, and his voice was thick with pain and hoarse with screaming. "I don't remember anything. Don't remember my name. I don't know my name."
The fire came again. The pain came again. He convulsed in the chair, every muscle, every tendon stretched to breaking point, and he screamed over and over, desperate to be heard, understood, believed. "I don't know! I don't remember! Don't remember!" He wanted it to stop. He wanted it all to stop and almost, almost he didn't care how it ended.
There was a later and he was slumped and shaking, only the ropes keeping him in place. He hurt. He hurt so much. He hurt so much and he was never going to get out of this, and he was going to die here (alone) and they were going to kill him and he wished . . . something. Almost, there'd been something. But there was nothing, and he was alone, and he hurt.
Vaguely he knew that Bill and Willy and Harry were standing over to his left. Were talking in low voices, apparently believing he couldn't hear.
"I think he's telling the truth," Bill's voice.
"He can't be." That was Willy.
"You hear about these things thought, don't you? There's even a word for it." And Harry.
"Amnesia." Bill again.
"Yeah. That. From being hit on the head too hard."
There was a pause.
"Oh, come on! It's not my fault!" Willy sounded angry. And that couldn't be good. For him.
"We're gonna need to call someone," Bill said at last.
He'd been hauled off the chair, dragged into a little office off the main floor and left there, his hands tied tightly behind his back.
And really, he should have concentrated on trying to find a way out, trying to escape, but when they'd shoved him inside, he'd stumbled and fallen, and it had been all he could do to get himself sitting against the wall. His whole body ached, and his head was pounding, and he could probably sleep for a hundred years without any real difficulty.
His shirt was still open and he'd made himself look. His chest looked about how it felt. Raw and red and blistered and weeping. He felt sick just looking. Felt sick thinking about what they'd done. And he wondered what they were going to do now? Seemed as though they'd had to send out for more instructions. They must be low level whatevers. Somehow, he couldn't think that things were about to get any better for him. They wanted to know what was going on. And so did he.
Near as he could figure it, he worked for someone named Dawson and he'd stolen something – some list – from someone named Mackenzie. Then he'd hidden it, and Bill, Willy and Harry had caught him, had tried to make him tell them where and, somewhere along the line, had hit him hard enough to knock him out and had got scared and dragged him to the hospital. He had a better idea of what happened from there. He woke up, minus his memories, Dawson's people came to kill him, for reasons unknown, and Mackenzie's people caught him again. Right. That seemed about it.
Oh, that was insane.
He sighed and struggled to his feet. Right. Right. First thing he had to do was to find something to cut these ropes with. He was in an office; maybe there were some scissors somewhere. Letter opener. Something.
A noise came from outside and he froze. Raised voices. There was a little glass window over the desk and, awkwardly, he scrambled onto it and looked down onto the chop shop floor. Harry and Willy were dragging a blond man inside the building. Taking him towards the office. Somehow they didn't seem to be being as rough as they had been with him. Huh. Preferential treatment. Harry and the blond looked up and saw him watching at the same moment and Harry glared and the blond winked. Hastily, he ducked out of sight and waited. They seemed to be heading his way, and a moment or two later, the door crashed open and the blond was pushed inside.
He looked round and the blond smiled at him. "Thank God," he said warmly. "You all right?"
"Yeah," he said suspiciously. "You know me?"
The blond laughed. "Funny."
He didn't smile and after a second the blond frowned at him. "What's wrong?"
"I don't remember anything before today," he admitted, anxious for any clue. If this man knew him . . . "Not who I am, not what I do, not anything."
"You're kidding, right?" the blond asked.
He shook his head silently.
"Fuck." The blond exhaled slowly and ran a hand through his hair. "That's awkward."
"Yeah," he agreed and suddenly realised something. "Hey, your hands aren't tied!"
The blond blinked. "No. Guess they forgot."
"You mind?" he asked and for a second it seemed as if the blond hesitated.
"Of course not," he said finally, and he stepped forwards and got started on the ropes.
"So who am I?" he asked, as the blond worked. "You know me, right?"
"Yeah," the blond agreed. "We're friends. We work together. For Dawson. You can trust me."
He nodded. "So what's my name?" he asked, anxiety colouring his voice.
There was a pause as the blond untied what must have been a particularly tight knot. "Harry Smith," he said at last.
Harry Smith. It meant nothing to him. Nothing at all. "Harry?" he tried out. "I'm Harry Smith." He shrugged. No. Definitely nothing.
"That's right," the blond told him approvingly. "And I'm Steven Parker. Your best friend."
Okay. That was good to know. "Nice to meet you," he said with a grin, as his hands were finally freed. He rubbed at his wrists thoughtfully. Far from the most pain he was feeling right now, but it was what they always did in the movies.
Steven smiled back at him. "Likewise."
"Now," he added. "How're we going to get out of here?"
Steven shrugged. "The others will come for us. They're not going to leave any of our people being held by Mackenzie's lot. Not at a time like this."
"What's going on?" he asked.
"Turf war," Steven explained shortly. "And whoever's got the list is going to win."
"They said I stole a list," he said slowly.
"Yeah," Steven nodded. "Don't suppose you happen to remember what you did with it?" he added casually.
He shook his head helplessly. "First thing I remember is a loud nurse."
Steven looked at him for a long, long time. "Right," he said at last. Then he stood up and banged loudly on the door. "Open up!" he yelled.
"What are you doing?" he asked desperately. It couldn't be. Couldn't . . .
He was ignored and then the door opened and Bill stood there, looking at Steven deferentially, while Harry stood just to his right, pointing a gun inside the room. At him.
"He's telling the truth," Steven told Bill. "He doesn't remember a thing. You've really fucked up this time. We're going to need to call Mr Mackenzie."
"Steven . . . " he tried to say as the only thing he'd found to anchor himself on twisted and faded away. He'd trusted. For a moment there, he'd trusted and it had been ripped away.
Steven turned round and smiled unpleasantly at him. "Shut up, Harry."
He blinked. "Harry's not my name?" he asked, hating the desperation, the need in his voice.
"Might be." Steven shrugged indifferently. "I wouldn't know. And I don't give a fuck. Mr Mackenzie will decide what to do with you."
They left him then, and the door closed and locked behind them, and he could hear the laughter echoing as they walked away.
He slumped to the floor heavily and sat for a long time, struggling not to cry. After a time he realised that he was staring at a paperclip embedded in the carpet, and he found himself staring between it and the lock on the door and the inexplicable knowledge sparked within him.
He could escape, or at least try. And maybe he had nothing to escape to, but it had to be better than staying here, hurt and alone and afraid and betrayed.
He could escape. He could run and next time he'd know better.
Thanks for reading, please let me know what you think.