Chapter Eight
Author's note:this whole story is about the effects of PTSD, so angst is integral to it. This chapter is not for the faint-hearted. Stay away if you are susceptible to triggers regarding physical, werbal and sexual abuse.
As the pain shot through his left arm and wrist, Sherlock tried to control his breathing but couldn't.
(Error 7 0x7 ERROR_ARENA_TRASHED)
The Mind Palace's storage control blocks went up in flames, and memories came pouring out of the stable door.
The grip around his wrist was too tight, the man was too strong. His blond hair fell over his eyes, but Sherlock could still see their murderous intent. What did I do to make you hate me so?
"You thought you were free, Klootzak. You always thought you were so clever, but this time, I'm the smart one. After I'm done with you, you will never ride again. And the zwarte paard? He'll be dead, too." Maes used his right hand to slam Sherlock up against the side of the tack room door. His other hand slid the bolt across. "You can't run, little paljas. You and me are going to have some fun before I finish you off."
The man's West Friesian accent sounded harsh and guttural. Sherlock always thought it crude, like a peasant's dialect. Nothing like Dirk Guilliams' beautiful French. Concentrate! Now was not the time for his mind to go spinning off into linguistic differences. But, Geert's grip was so tight! He was spun around and dragged across the tack room. Sherlock shouted, "LET GO OF ME!"
Maes erupted in laughter. "Shout all you want- no one can hear. Only your Seeröver. And believe me, he won't rescue you. Soon enough you'll be hearing his screams. Ever hear a horse really in pain, Holmes? No, well, prepare yourself. Friesians can bellow like the devil when they are hurt. That big chest? Just made for screaming. I'm going to make you listen to him dying. It's only fair. After all, you're the one that's killed him, you and your smart mouth."
He let go of Sherlock's wrist, pushing the boy backwards so that he slammed into the tack table. Then he backhanded him, smashing a blow into Sherlock's left side with a force that sent him flying. The boy ended up in a heap on the floor by the barrel of special oat feed.
"Where's the smart ass reply now, Klootzak? Hmm? Going to run to Guilliams again? He's not here. It's just you and me." He laughed again. "Your white knight is off in London until tomorrow night. Want to try running to Daddy instead? Well, we both know how well that went last time, don't we?"
Sherlock got his legs under him again and struggled to stand up. "What have I ever done to make you hate me so much?"
"You just talk yourself big all the time. You're the better rider, the horse responds better to you. 'Maes, don't be so heavy handed', he mimicked the public school English accent. "You always think you are so clever, but every time you try to get rid of me, it just comes back and bites you." He pulled up Sherlock in one hand, hoisting him upright by the front of his shirt. As the teenager managed to catch a breath, he struck out with his fist to try to get the man to let go.
The blow landed with no power, and just provoked a roar of laughter from the barrel- chested man. "You sukkel. You call that a fist? Let me show you what a real fist can do." He hit the boy twice in the abdomen and watched him crumple to his knees again, and then bend over and vomit violently.
"Ach- you are such a little English wimp. Puke your guts, pee in your pants and crap yourself for all the good it will do you."
He grabbed the black curls and yanked the boy's head up. "You know why you are getting this, don't you? You fixed it yesterday so Guilliams caught me with the knife, bent over the horse's hoof, ready to make sure you couldn't compete at Gatcombe." The man snorted in disgust at the vomit dribbling down the teenager's mouth. "I should have taken the knife to you. That was my mistake."
"Well, this time, I'm smarter than you. Everyone thinks I'm halfway across the North Sea, on a ferry bound for De Hoeck. I have the perfect alibi. When Guilliams fired me and put me on the train at Pulborough this morning, he didn't know that I got off at the next stop. I took the next southbound train, stole a bike at the station and got back here with plenty of time to plan this all out."
He let go of the dark curls and used his booted foot to shove the boy down flat onto the concrete floor. Still gasping for breath from the blows to his abdomen, Sherlock struggled to get his knees back under him, only to be kicked hard on the back, driving him down again.
"I've been hiding in the ceiling here just waiting for you. I've got time, plenty of time to do what I want with you and that horse, then cycle back to Pullborough and catch the last train. No one will ever know."
The flaxen haired man now pulled a switchblade from his pocket and opened it. Putting his knee into the small of Sherlock's back, he grabbed the shirt and used the knife to cut a great slice into the fabric. He then ripped it off the boy, and started the knife down the jodhpur waist band.
As his clothes were torn off him, gasping for breath, Sherlock started to struggle violently. Maes's fist connected with his side again and the boy stilled, the fight literally knocked out of him. Ragged breaths that were half sobs emerged as the Dutchman grabbed three stirrup leathers from the tack table and secured the spindly right hand and the two ankles. The left hand would be more difficult, because there was nothing conveniently close to hand. He sat back on his heels, looked at the alabaster skin of the youth. Already blue bruising was starting to emerge. He laughed again.
"Oh, such a soft one. That skin is like a canvas for my fists to paint on. Shame there won't be anyone to enjoy my handiwork."
Sherlock tried to control his breathing. He had to stop crying; it wasn't going to help. "How do you think you're going to get away with this?" he gasped.
"Oh, that's the easy part. Dead, burnt bodies don't leave much evidence. The leather will burn so no one will know you were tied up. Clothes burn off, so no one will know you were naked."
"You're going to burn the stable?" The boy could not disguise the horror in his voice. I'm going to die and Pirate is going to die, because of me, because I couldn't stop this man from hating me. He tried to think of something, anything that would make the man re-think his plans. "Setting a fire, they'll suspect arson, the fire departments always check. You won't get away with it. Just leave and I swear I will never tell anyone it was you."
Maes leaned down and grabbed Sherlock's chin, pulling it sharply to the right so the boy would be able to see him. "No problem on that score. You won't be alive to tell anyone anything. And they won't suspect me at all." He grinned, then reached into his jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper. "After I'm done here, I will fax this from the machine in the estate manager's office. It's easy to break into, the man's hopeless at remembering to close the window. Shall I read it to you? Only fair, really, given that it's your suicide note."
"Father- He was fired this morning and sent away. I can't live without him, so I've decided to end it for good." He sniggered, "They won't even bother to look for me. Your father probably won't even tell the police for the shame of it all- his poofter son, that's what he thinks of you. I made it look good- traced your signature, too."
The Dutchman put the paper back in his jacket, and started fishing amongst the leads hanging over the tack table. Then he grabbed the boy's left hand, and looped the lunge line around his forearm, pulling it tight before walking over to the cast iron water pipe that ran down from the ceiling. He tied it off, giving it an extra hard yank to stretch it completely taught before finishing the knots. Then he looked back at his handiwork.
"You look like one of those butterflies- you know the ones with a pin through them. Too bad I didn't bring a camera, I'd like to have a trophy. Put a picture of you up on my wall, to remind me of this."
Sherlock begged. "Please, let Pirate go. The horse never hurt you. He's a Friesian, like you. You're supposed to love them, how could you hurt him? Just open the stall door, he'll escape, and no one will know anything."
"Well, here's my answer to that little suggestion." He kicked him again in the side.
"What, no smart words for me now, eh?" The man bent down to look and realised that the teenager was unconscious.
Maes started to prepare. He'd taken three cans of paraffin from the gardeners' shed- supplies to run the greenhouse heaters in the winter. No one would notice them missing anytime soon. They were now open and ready in the ceiling space. He stood on the tack table and reached into the hatch above his head, pulling out the fuse - a strip of absorbent cloth cut from the saddle blanket now dangled down from the hatch. Once alight, it would take a few minutes to burn its way into the first paraffin can- enough time to send the fax and get on his bike and on his way.
There was only one task left before he lit the fuse. He turned the water tap on and half-filled the bucket, then upended it on the teenager, who spluttered back into consciousness.
"I want you to be awake for this, Holmes. Wouldn't be much fun if I couldn't hear your screams. Always thought you were an asshole. So, let's see just what I can get up it." He picked up the riding crop, and bent over the boy's buttocks.
Wet and cold, lying in his own vomit, and totally unable to do anything about what was about to happen, Sherlock whispered in despair, "Myc, where are you?"…
…Stuck inside the file, raging against the stupidity of replaying this particularly useless bit of memory, the system administrator tried for the third time to run the delete routine. It didn't work, so he just despaired and pulled the plug:
(CTR_ALT_DEL)
All systems began the shutdown routine.
Mycroft was trying to stop Sherlock flailing at him. Sherlock's eyes were open, but not focusing on anything. Then he suddenly stopped struggling, and both men heard the despairing whisper, "Myc, where are you?"
John saw Sherlock's eyes starting to roll upward, shouting "CATCH HIM!" Luckily, Mycroft saw the same thing, and as his brother's legs started to give way, the taller man was able to shift his grip from the right wrist to around his waist, so he didn't crash to the floor this time. Then John was there beside him and together they brought him down in a more controlled fashion. John looked confused. "Mike? Who's Mike?"
Mycroft was taking the union jack cushion offered by Esther and putting it under those ridiculously dishevelled dark curls. "He means me; it's what he used to call me when he was young."