Free (1998) Denial by Peter James

tie?’
    ‘No, no one told me.’ Something Justin saw in the man’s eyes frightened him even more.
    ‘You don’t look comfortable, Justin F. Flowering. I thought you were a hard-boiled newspaperman, I thought you could take heat. So, now, tell me the names of the actor and the actress on the screen?’
    ‘Gloria Lamark,’ the young reporter said.
    ‘Very good. And now the man?’
    The reporter stared at him blankly.
    ‘I did tell you,’ Thomas said. ‘I told you the names of all her films, and all the stars. You probably have your head filled with art-house junk, don’t you? You like Fellini? Jean-Luc Godard?
Robbe-Grillet
?’
    ‘I don’t go to the films much.’
    ‘You have to understand, Justin F. Flowering, that the plots of my mother’s films weren’t complex. That’s not to say they weren’t clever, but they were straightforward. No art-house crap. None of that boring
nouvelle vague
crap. But I tell you something, Justin, she made
great
movies. And that’s why her career was destroyed. By jealous people. I want you to remember this for your article, OK?’
    Justin nodded.
    ‘They don’t make those kinds of films any more. They’ll never make them like that any more. They can’t because she is dead. And they killed her.
They
!’
    In a sudden squall of rage, Thomas stepped forward, emptied the bucket of water over the coals, stepped back as the steam exploded, refilled the bucket, and emptied that over them, too. The heat was incredible. Justin screamed.Thomas Lamark stepped out of the cabin and closed the door.
    Justin lay there, twisting his head to the right, then to the left, trying to find some pocket of cool air in the searing, claustrophobic steam. It burned his lungs as he breathed it in. Burned his nostrils, his eyes, crackled his hair. It was so hot that his brain tricked him into thinking he’d been plunged into ice. Then it returned him again to the heat.
    A short while later, the door opened. Thomas Lamark stood in the entrance, holding an unlit blowtorch in one hand and a rotary band-saw, attached to a flex, in the other.
    ‘Justin F. Flowering, we’re going to play a little game to help you remember my mother’s films. I’m going to tell you them all once again. When I’ve finished, you are going to repeat them back to me. Just the titles, OK?’
    ‘Yes.’ The reporter’s voice sounded unstable.
    ‘Good, this is going to be fun, Justin. Just one thing I want you to remember. Each time you make a mistake, I’m going to cut off one of your limbs. OK?’
    The reporter stared back at him in bald terror.
    Thomas recited the list, all twenty-five films. Then he said, ‘Your turn now, Justin.’
    ‘Could you repeat the list?’
    ‘I’ll repeat it if you make a mistake, but not until then, Justin. In your own time, just go ahead.’
    ‘
W-Wings of the Wild
.’ Justin Flowering said.
    Thomas nodded, approvingly.
    ‘
The – The – The Argossy File
.’
    Thomas smiled. ‘Close, Justin, but not quite right. It’s
The
Arbuthnot
File
! But you were close enough, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.’ He smiled back so warmly that now Justin knew he was only joking about cutting off his limbs.
    He smiled back. ‘Thank you.’
    ‘You’re very welcome,’ Thomas said. ‘Now, in your own time again.’
    ‘
Race of The Devils
.’
    ‘Yes. Only twenty-two to go now, Justin!’
    ‘
Storm Warning
.’
    ‘Twenty-one!’
    ‘Um – um – something
Monaco?
’
    ‘I can’t help you, Justin. You have to do this by yourself.’ He stared with hatred at the youth, stared at the fair hair matted on his head, the sweat guttering down his face.
    The reporter had run out of names. He stared back helplessly at Thomas.
    ‘Twenty and a half, that’s not very good, Justin F. Flowering. I think I’d better give your memory a jolt.’
    Thomas switched on the rotary saw and stepped forward.
    Justin screamed. He thrashed against his bonds in desperation, but he was locked solidly in