Breaking Point (3 page)

It’s odd, but I’m simultaneously an object of unique importance and a total irrelevance. The moment is at once impersonal and obscenely intimate and, as my heart hammers away spastically, like a bird with a broken wing, I wonder if he might not misjudge this whole thing; if, never mind the pain, the fucking terror will finish me before that blade gets to bite. Then there’s that motherfucker hope again.
How long was I out?
Take your sweet-assed time, fucker. Take all the time in the world.

              With my shirt undone; he exhales slowly (intimate but he’s true, not sexual, and more fucking Juicy Fruit) then smiles a street huckster smile. A
can I buy you a drink?
smile that promises Rohypnol-induced stupor and non-consensual anal sex for some poor underage girl, and says, “Well, let’s see how badly I’ve damaged the goods!”

He moves forward with the blade, and I can’t breathe again. I am incapable of drawing breath, blinking, swallowing, moving my eyes away from him, I have actually gone fucking
tharn
, and every single nerve ending is screaming with anticipation at what’s to come. Surely this is an all time epic fail of evolution right here, isn’t it? Why wouldn’t I go numb? Instead I feel every hair on my arms standing to strict attention, the hairs on my head also rising, a beaded drop of sweat rolling down the centre of my chest, towards my busted ribs, and all I can think is: Don’t scream too loud. Don’t give him too much too soon. He gets carried away, like he did with the bat. You have to keep him calm so he’ll go slow. You have to help him stay calm. (And underneath, just ‘please oh please fuck no fuck fuck no please please no no fuck’ etc).

His other hand reaches and pulls back my t-shirt from my chest, and the T is so wet it’s almost audible. His face shows no disgust, no concern. His eyes finally leave mine to attend to his task. He takes in my T and I’m close enough to see his pupils contract with surprise. Slowly, his eyes travel up to meet mine, then back to my chest, and a new smile, this one I think maybe genuine surprise/amusement, spreads across his face.“Fucking hell mate, talk about fate.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. Seeing this, he laughs.

“Well, not much of a morning person, are you? Have you seen them live then?”

He inclines his head towards the stereo and the penny drops - or maybe clangs. I’m wearing my Wolfmother T-shirt. It strikes me that this may provide a precious opportunity to stall. He’s genuinely surprised and clearly pleased with the co-incidence. I chance a deeper than normal breath, and stop inhaling just as the stabbing pain begins, and without swallowing or giving myself a chance to worry about if I can still do it, say, “Hammersmith Apollo.”

Breath.

“Last year.”

He whistles appreciatively.  “I heard they put on a good show. Was it good?”

“Yeah.”

Breath.

“Fucking loud.”

He laughs again at that one. “I bet.  I’m glad it was good - I mean, you never know, do you? Huh. That’s funny, that is. Ah well…” His hand peels the wet T back from my chest again, high, near the neck, and the blade moves towards my throat. “I’m afraid your next of kin won’t be getting it back in one piece. Try not to make any sudden movements - don’t want to cut proceedings short, do we?”

Funny fucker. No, we do not. I hold my breath and try and find a stillness and rigidity that stops short of trembling. I manage it, which we’ll call a win. I achieve this only because I’m reasonably confident that, while the real pain is imminent, he’s not planning on starting just yet. This is exactly what he said, an inspection, finding out what he has to work with, how long I’m likely to last. How bad I’m already hurt.

Sure. But just the same, try not to twitch and make him draw blood. He does get carried away. Don’t get him started.
Sure enough, he starts sawing at the neckline of my T-shirt. It’s slow work getting through the neck band, but he’s strong and the blade is obviously pretty sharp, and once it gives way, the rest of the fabric gives with only a faint purr. Either I was riding untucked, or that happened sometime after I came off my bike - either way I’m grateful. Although pulling it out might have given me a few extra precious seconds, the thought of him leaning on my stomach, even gently, to do so - hey, let’s not, shall we?

My T-shirt is in two, and he peels it aside until my torso is bare. I don’t look down, but I don’t need to; his face tells a story, and not a pretty one. He winces, as if in sympathy, and then gives The Whistle. The one you usually hear from the mechanic at the garage just before something deeply expensive happens. Let me guess. My bodywork is fucked. Gonna need a whole new front end.

“Fucking hell. I really went for it with that bat, didn’t I? Don’t know my own fucking strength, mate. Sorry about that. This why you’re breathing like that? Hurts?”

I risk a nod. Slowly. It’s not too bad - the tendons in my neck creak a little, but there’s nothing searing. One for the good guys.

“Yeah, that’s a rib gone, mate. Shit.”

Ribs fucked. Gonna cost ya, guv.

He looks at the top of my chest, eyes all business, appraising. “Lucky I didn’t break your collarbone at the top and all - that really would have fucked things up! I thought that the jacket would have taken more of the blow. Guess it’s momentum, init? Ah well, I s‘pose…” He puts the knife down, and his left hand swings round at speed, grabs my right arm just above the elbow.

And squeezes.

The pain doesn’t blossom at this point; it fucking
explodes.
It atomises, as in bomb, mushroom cloud. It’s a chain reaction of pure fire, and it travels up and down the entire length of my arm, leaving devastation behind it. It is instant: one second I’m making jokes to myself about mechanics; the very next nanosecond, my brain and body are burning. I scream and, as I scream with my eyes screwed shut, the sound ripping through my throat, invisibly, numbly, my stomach rolls and heaves and gives up the battle with nausea. For the first time since I learned to use the potty, I projectile vomit, the entire contents of my stomach violently exiting through my still screaming throat and nose. I feel the heat of its sudden passage even as the heave sets off an explosion in my stomach, this apocalypse of pain, and it flings me in half: throwing me forward, my head bouncing off his chest, pushing him aside, before hitting the floor, still accelerating until the moment of impact, which I register but do not feel at all, like when someone knocks on the other side of the wall you are leaning against, my stomach and arm are my world, and my world is pain, and everything goes grey and then there’s a single wonderful moment when I leave all the pain behind. Then, it goes black.

CHAPTER 5

Bongo drums. Moisture. ‘Sympathy for the Devil.’ Blessed cool water on my forehead. I feel the droplets run down my cheeks, my chin, my chest. Wet cloth. Gentle, soothing. Caring. I’m breathing, quick shallow breaths. My hair is soaking wet and stuck to my head. Sweat or water? My eyes feel glued shut. I’m aware of my chest rising and falling, my face, my head, and bongos. Well, fuck me, that was a crazy dream.  I should lay off the cheesecake. Now, what the fuck is going on? ‘Sympathy…’? No. Distorted guitar kicks in. It’s ‘Love Train.’ My face starts to smile in recognition. I feel it move, then freeze.

Wolfmother. At volume.

Aw, fuck.

It’s grief; that’s all. Simple grief. It rises up from my chest as memory oozes back, skulking out of the shadow of unconsciousness to squint and squirm in the light of realisation. A grief so big, so painful, that my eyes fill with tears even before the pain fades back in. My eyelids are still too heavy to open, but the tears come regardless, and I realise I’m sobbing in quick small breaths.

The snot reaches my tongue and mixes with the taste of blood and stomach acid. The last thing I’ll ever taste - bitter, salt, copper. I can smell nothing. I feel too much. Too much. And the worst is yet to come. I’m not going to make it. And still he mops my brow, gently, tenderly, love me tender, love me true, true love, false love, false. I weep. For myself. For what’s to come. I know the pain will kill me, and I know it won’t be quick. How many more times will I wake with this taste in my mouth? How many before I just stay down? Too many. Any is too many.

I cry. ‘Love Train’ keeps on trucking, loud and proud. My doom wipes my face (all the better to kill you with) and I’m thinking about how long I can keep my eyes shut (too fucked up to realise that you don’t cry when you’ve passed out, so he knows that I’m up) when my heart stops and my eyes fly open.

My left trouser pocket is vibrating.

Fucking hell, baby. Where the fuck have you been?

CHAPTER 6

There’re too many thoughts and far, far too little time. She’s trying to reach me, so she’s worried. 50/50 is fucked; the audience is gone, but I still have phone-a-friend. My last lifeline is live. Thanks entirely to my anal wanker supervisor and his ‘mobiles-on-silent’ policies. I could kiss the sweaty fat fuck right now. With tongues. But piling onto the back of that thought, I’m staring into the eyes of my killer and whatever my face is doing, he doesn’t like it. Not one bit. And that’s unacceptably bad news, because I want my fucking lifeline, and if he finds it, he cuts it.

Shit. Fucking fuck. There’s no time to think, just act, but I can’t. I’m paralysed. I just stare at him instead. He’s got my vomit all over his shirt and trousers and some on his neck: mostly cake, sandwich, Coca-Cola and stomach acid with just a little blood. If it smells as bad as it tastes, he’s got a pretty high tolerance for the gross (which, duh). His face is alive and alert and deeply scary. His nostrils are flaring, his eyes blazing, brow furrowed. He’s devouring my expression, and I start to get the merest glimpse of what lurks beneath the man I’ve seen so far; it’s a lake of fire, ever-burning rage, and all I’ve seen so far is the merest flicker.

“What?” His voice is so, so soft.

This is IT, motherfucker. It’s in your hands, and it’s now or never. SAY SOMETHING!

“Nothing.” I concentrate on letting the pain and the fear back in. Not all the way, but to the surface, loud and clear. Breathing a little deeper is a good first step. My eyes fill with tears again, and I feel my face falling.

He’s not biting.

“Bullshit. Something. What?” Voice a little louder. Grip tighter on the cloth. Knuckles whitening, water trickling through his fingers, unnoticed, pattering on the floor between his feet.

He’s going to punch me in the face in the next couple of seconds. Or maybe the arm. That does the trick. Fear - no, terror - comes flooding back in. The tears flow. I feel myself trembling all over. Shock. Pain. It’s real; this is real. I don’t want this.

“Saved!” My own voice is a bark, harsh and alien.

              “What?” His tone has changed, marginally.

He’s still fully alert, still wary. I’m still in extreme danger, but his fist is relaxing just a little.

“Thought I was.”

Breath.

“Saved.”

Breath.

“Rescued.”

Breath.

“Just for a second.”

Breath.

“You were being nice.”

Breath.

“Thought I was rescued.” My voice catches on that last word, and why not? It’s true, in its way, and devastating. The emotion is real, and the tears flow some more; his face is hard to make out, but it looks very cold and very calculating. He’s processing, seeing if what I’ve said fits what he saw, turning it over carefully and shit this guy is smart, and sharp, and so, so dangerous.

I hang my head and cry. I don’t look up. I wait, but I also grieve, and the grief is real because at best, this man has already irrevocably changed me, and will change me further before our time together passes. That which doesn't kill me makes me older. My tears run down my nose, and then drip down into my lap. I open my eyes, and that’s when I see my still gloved hands, lying on my lap, palms up.

He’s untied my arms.

I try hard to hold onto the grief, but that S.O.B. hope is back, trampling it. Thank God for the pain. My sobbing slows but doesn’t stop. That’s okay, maybe. My head is down.

His hand steals under my chin and gently, but firmly, raises my head. I snot and drool and cry and let my eyes meet him. I take in his face. The rage has dimmed again, but I discover it’s not something you can un-see, exactly - it’s still there, and he’s clearly decided that it will get full and free expression. But not just yet. Please, God, not yet.

“All right. I’m going to go and get cleaned up. Tooled up too. The door locks from the other side, so I advise you not to waste your energy. I’ll shower, I’ll change, I’ll get my things, and then we’ll get started. OK?”

“Please.”

Breath.

“Don’t.”

“I read the anticipation is a big part of it. Makes sense if you think about it. But save your strength, because you will need it. And one more thing…” His hand shoots out towards my arm, and I cry out and shy away, reflexively, before I realise that he’s not grabbed or hit me, merely made the gesture. Made the point. “…however bad you think things are, however much I put you through, you need to understand that I can always make it worse. I could just keep squeezing your arm until you pass out; wake you up, rinse, repeat. We could do that for days.”