Free The Dying Place by Luca Veste Page A

much damage as he’d have liked, but it didn’t lessen the pain he knew he was inflicting. Drawing his leg up, smashing his heel right into Bootle’s stomach. Then a volley into his bollocks, to really take his breath away. Then he moved up. He had a wicked right foot on him, when he’d played footy instead of getting pissed or stoned with his mates, and he lined up Bootle’s face as if he was about to fire in a free kick in front of the Kop.
    Bang.
    The sound was deafening in the small space, making Goldie jump and lose his footing.
    A soft voice from the corner, that’s all he could hear after the ringing had stopped.
    ‘No … no … no …’
    Goldie looked over the broken body of Bootle towards the door. The main guy – Bally-Suit – stood there, backed up with two others. Holding the rifle level with him. The bang had come from one of the other two rather than him, Goldie guessed. Bally-Suit wouldn’t have fired a gun without it being pointed at someone, Goldie reckoned.
    Goldie realised he was shaking his head, moving backwards all the time. The fight disappearing from him.
    He was in the shit.
    Bally-Suit man had offered up the name Alpha as he’d tied him to the rack. It suited him. Better than what Goldie had come up with.
    Alpha. He was the one in charge.
    Goldie tried not to pay much attention to what was happening. Thought he could zone out of whatever they did to him, think above the pain.
    It didn’t – couldn’t – work like that. He was restrained so he couldn’t make any movement at all. Every possible part of him was strapped down, tied together, and immovable. Lying spreadeagled in just the black boxer shorts he’d been given a pile of at some point – fucking Asda brand; he couldn’t believe he was putting his junk into something so shite – exposed and useless.
    ‘It’s a shame it’s come to this,’ Alpha said from somewhere to his left. Goldie couldn’t move his head to check for certain. ‘I knew you’d end up here at some point, but it is really a damn shame it was due to this. We simply cannot tolerate you lads fighting each other. It will not happen again. I hope the next couple of hours convince you of this.’
    Goldie shivered as a cold breeze snuck under the wooden door that he could just about make out. Just the ridge at the top, if he really tried looking down. Otherwise it was just strip light, which burned into his eyes if he looked at it too long. Lighting up his face even when his eyes were closed.
    ‘We call this a rack, but it’s not like the old racks they had hundreds of years ago. Those ones … Jesus. You wouldn’t believe the pain they could inflict. They’d tie you down and stretch you out, tightening the ropes and making your bones dislocate and break. Destroying your limbs. Tearing them right out.’
    Goldie started shaking … as much as he could, anyway. He tried again to move, but it didn’t matter. He could move a finger – maybe two – but not much more than that.
    ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to stretch you out or anything like that. No. This is purely about instant pain and punishment. But also … hopefully … redemption. I don’t want to destroy you. I want you to get better, understand?’
    Goldie opened his mouth to answer but was cut off by the gag which was shoved in his mouth as he opened it. His vision was obscured by a thick piece of sock-like material being placed around his eyes.
    ‘Good. Then we’ll begin.’
    Goldie tensed as he heard the flick of a lighter. Clenched his eyes tight and tried to block out the pain.
    Burning on his chest. Fuck, his chest was on fire. He tried to see, but the harsh light overhead stopped him. Screwing his eyes shut, he thought of home, of his streets, of anywhere but there.
    He tried screaming, but the gag inside his mouth turned it into a mumble in the darkness.
    Some sort of vice was attached to his head. Goldie felt it tightening, the bones of his skull being forced together, screaming