PROLOGUE

October 1st, 1965

It took him a minute to figure out the noise wasn't coming from inside his head. The rhythmic whirring of the bedroom fan sounded louder than usual, a pneumatic drill hammering his senses. He felt a nausea deep in his gut, like the room was swaying from side to side. Hangovers he could deal with, he'd had plenty of practice, but this was something else. His throat was as dry as sand, it hurt to swallow. He tried to open his eyes but the daylight was too intense. Bringing a hand up to his face, he could feel dried blood around his mouth and nose and his eyes were badly swollen. What the hell had happened? He was accustomed to bar-room brawls, but someone had really done a number on him this time.

How did he get home? Come to think of it, who had he been fighting? Fragments of the night flashed before him, like images flickering on a broken Super 8 projector. He remembered playing pool. He saw a good looking woman sat at the bar; slim, jet black hair, nicely turned out—not the kind of girl he usually met at redneck bars in South Carolina. Her dark eyes drew him in, he remembered her smile. She was smiling at him.

His head was spinning, the more he wracked his brains the more he felt like he might throw up, and what the hell was that smell?

He attempted to open his eyes again, shielding them with his arm. Through bloody slits he saw the room jump in and out of focus a few times as his pupils adjusted to the environment.

Shit. This wasn't his room.

Slowly he pushed himself up on the bed, taking in his surroundings. It wasn't daylight flooding the tiny windowless room, but a fluorescent tube humming above his head. The fan he could hear was rattling around behind a rusty air-vent in the ceiling. The walls were heavily speckled with mould and mildew and the floor was cold and wet beneath his bare feet. He realised that he was wearing just boxer shorts and a vest, which was torn and stained with what looked like blood, sweat and vomit. He then saw that there was vomit on the bed and pillow, and his foot was resting in a cold pile on the floor. So that explained the smell. The room was empty except for the bed and a bucket of putrid water in the far corner where something had been leaking from the roof. He looked to the door, it was heavy duty and made of steel, and he'd put money on it being bolted from the outside. He was being held prisoner, and had spent enough time in police cells to know this was something different.

Beside him on the bed he noticed a brown glass bottle; he grabbed it, removed the stopper and took a deep, greedy gulp, not stopping to question what might be inside. The water was warm and stale, days old, but he couldn't remember anything tasting so sweet.

Catching his breath he pushed himself onto his feet, but could barely stand upright. He grabbed onto the bed for support, his head was spinning and it felt like the whole world was about to topple over. Steadying himself, he cautiously stepped to the door and collapsed against the cold metal. He rattled the handle—he was right, it was locked. He pounded against the steel and when he spoke his voice was barely more than a crackle.

"Let me out! Hello? Hello? What the hell is this? What's going on?" He stopped, pressed his ear to the door and listened. There was movement outside, voices, but he couldn't make out what was being said. He pounched at the metal again. "C'mon, joke's over! Open the door!"

Then a metallic scraping sound behind him. He spun round and watched as the bucket slid across the floor toward him, it moved completely unassisted then toppled over, spilling brown water all over his feet. The glass bottle, lying on its side on the bed, wobbled this way and that and then slowly rolled across the bed, fell to the floor and shattered. He was speechless for a second, what was going on? Then it hit him. The room really was swaying. He was on a ship.

He stepped back towards the bed but slipped on the brown effluent from the bucket and landed hard on his back. The world was upside down as he heard the clank and thud of the door bolt turning and sliding, then he watched as the door creaked open. A boulder of a man stepped into the room and stared down at him. The man's bare arms were like tree trunks and were covered in tattoos, as was much of his face, which looked like it might crack if this guy even attempted a smile. He wore an apron bearing a variety of red and brown stains, old blood spatters mixed with new.

"Get up."

"I've got a better idea, why don't you come down here and lie in the shit?"

The man kicked him hard in his gut, there was a sharp pain and he coughed and spluttered, the wind completely knocked out of him.

Another figure walked into the room, the woman from the bar. She was in her early thirties and as attractive as he remembered, though he doubted they were going to hit it off. Her snug, designer pant suit accentuated her curves, and—given their surroundings—he didn't think anyone could look more out of place. When she spoke to her colleague her accent was French and sounded familiar, they must have talked at the bar.

"Get him up." The man grumbled, grabbed his arm and threw him onto the bed.

"Henry, I apologise for your treatment." He didn't think now was the time to tell her that Henry was his father's name, he preferred the one he'd chosen for himself. The woman smiled playfully. "You put up a fight, I warned you not to, but you refused to listen. I can see there is a fire raging in you. I like that."

"Where are we? What the hell have you done to me?"

"We had to sedate you quite heavily. You're lucky to have survived. You've been drifting in and out of consciousness for several days. The effects of the drug will wear off soon. In the meantime I will have you brought something to eat. You must regain your strength. You will need it"

The woman smiled again, turned and left. He lunged after her.

"Wait! Tell me what's—" this time it was the man's fist that connected with his stomach; he crumpled back to the floor. As the man turned and exited the room he could hear distant noises; screaming, crying, the dull thud of fists banging on metal. Other people were being held captive too, dozens of them. Then the door to his cell slammed shut, the bolt slid and clanked into place and Mutt was left alone with just the whirring of the fan.

He didn't know where he was going, or what would happen to him when he got there.