The Major Incident
Chapter 8
Starsky didn't ever remember being so tired. Every bone in his body was sore and every muscle protested each movement he was permitted to make. He didn't know and didn't care what time it was any more. Time was irrelevant, measured by the periods when the blindfold was removed and he was forced to watch the pictures moving on the bright white wall opposite.
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Earlier:
Sharpe had explained to the detective that he was going to start at chapter one of the book he, Starsky, had researched and helped to write all those years ago, and work his way through to the end. Starsky had spat at the General, telling him exactly what he thought of the General's attitude, ideas and ancestry. He had been rewarded with what felt like several rounds with Mohammed Ali. As a result, he had lost consciousness and his last lucid thought had been for his blond haired friend. Oh God Hutch. I need you buddy, but I don't want you to come here now – just stay out of the way an' everything will be fine.
Starsky regained consciousness as someone threw a pail of ice cold water over him. The surprise jarred his sore muscles and he tried to shake the water from his eyes, but his head and neck hurt so much, he abandoned the idea, instead leaving the water to sting his eyes and drip from the dark wet curls plastered to his forehead. He realised he's been stripped naked and that he must have been that way for some time. He was shivering uncontrollably, his teeth chattering so much he thought they would break. The room was cold and Starsky thought grimly of Chapter 2 – 'Technique 5. The Cold Cell: The prisoner is left to stand naked in a cell kept near 50 degrees. Throughout the time in the cell the prisoner is doused with cold water'. Well this is one crap way to see if it works. Serves ya right for bein' so damn thorough!
The cold seemed to burrow its way into his bones. His skin, he noticed fatalistically was mottled and blue, his finger tips white. There was an intense ache in his shoulders and neck, which he realised was probably from the shivering, and his head hurt like there was a jack hammer going off inside.
A loud voice was telling him to stand up. At first the command didn't register and he didn't move, eliciting a swift and heavy kick to his back at the level of his kidneys. He jerked in shock and pain and the breath whistled through his teeth. He fell forward onto his stomach and stayed there in a heap on the cold hard ground for a moment. Anything to defer from the next blow. The voice was shouting again and slowly and stiffly Starsky rose to his feet.
He realised that the cold room was occupied by himself and two other soldiers who refused to look directly at him. They told him to stand facing the wall and to take up the 'stress position'. Starsky feigned ignorance – mistake. More punches, this time to his stomach, causing him to retch and fight for breath. The blows overlay those he had suffered earlier making them doubly painful, and when he tried to double over to protect his stomach, the soldiers instead changed their target to his back and kidneys.
Finally they stopped and gave the command again. Starsky staggered towards the wall and stopped about eighteen inches away. He slowly reached up with his hands until he was spreadeagled against the wall, his fingers reaching high above his head, his legs spread apart and his feet back, causing him to stand on his toes with the weight of his body mainly on his fingers. The position was intensely painful from the beginning and the dark haired man knew the build up of lactic acid in his muscles would only intensify the sensations over the coming hours.
A blindfold was once again placed over his eyes, and his world was reduced to darkness, his universe shrinking to the core of his body, the sensory deprivation seemed to intensify the aches and pains Starsky felt, and he fought to take his mind away, to think of something else and not give in.
Another dose of ice cold water which hit his body like a set of knives, scattered any last vestiges of warmth from his core. Starsky realised that other than the commands, the whole of the exercise had been conducted in silence, the only touches the soldiers had allowed had been the multiple blows to his body.
Suddenly Starsky yearned for a gentle touch, a kind word. What did Peter Pan say? Find your happy place. Well you'd better start lookin' now Davey, you're gonna need it.
He concentrated and suddenly, like an angel rising up from the depths, the happy place emerged. Starsky's mind conjured up a vision of a blond head; a smiling face; a lithe Viking body. In Starsky's mind, the man turned to look directly at him, smiling. Ice blue eyes looked directly into his and he heard a voice, low, gentle and silky smooth saying 'me and thee, Gordo, me and thee'. The vision, memory, whatever it was, took away some of the dark haired man's pain and he continued imagining that the two detectives were once again driving the streets of Bay City in the powerful red car, the warm sun shining down on them, sharing jokes and banter. He concentrated on the feeling of Hutch's hand on his arm, and almost managed to imagine the warmth of the broad, strong hand.
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Two thousand miles away, Hutch sat in his battered car, outside his apartment after the second boring day without his partner. The sun had shone all day and the inside of his car was like a toaster, his hands burning on the leather as he took hold of the steering wheel.
Hutch had expected a telephone call from his partner the previous night, but none had been forthcoming. He had put it down to the dark haired man having to familiarise himself with his new command. He was bound to be busy. But something tugged at Hutch's mind. He too felt that there was something not quite right about the whole set up, but he couldn't put his finger on it.
Suddenly a shiver ran down his spine and a cloud seemed to pass over the face of the bright sun. He felt as if someone had walked over his grave and the temperature inside his car seemed to plummet to sub zero. In his mind he had a fleeting image of his partner. Hutch's heart speeded up and his breathing hiked to match. He paused in his action to switch on the engine, pulling a shaking hand away from the key. Grasping the shaking hand in his other, he took a deep breath. Pull yourself together, Hutchinson. It's only been two days. Just give yourself some time. Starsky'll be fine – he's in command for Gods sake.
Hutch got out of the car and went inside his apartment. He busied himself making tea, pasta, fruit and took his supper over to the table already loaded with medical books, as he re-familiarised himself, preparing for his undercover role. He bent his head to the books and tried to concentrate on Blacks Medical Encyclopaedia. The words seemed to swim on the page and another wave of cold hit him.
For pity's sake, Hutchinson, this is no time to get sick. Another shiver. Hutch raised his cup of tea to his lips and took a sip of the scalding brew. Taking a steadying breath, he tried to ignore his growing concern, and returned to his books.