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Or was it just some of that world-famous Irish fatalism? Anyway, whatever it was it got me so hard, seeing you walking valiantly across the wasteland like some apocalyptic hero; I mean look, simply just talking about it is turning me on again. See?” He stepped back so that I could see the unmistakeable bulge in his black jeans and he splayed his fingers over his hard-on for an emphasis that I really didn’t need. “I wish you could feel my cock for yourself, but unfortunately I’ve got to make sure you’re nicely secured. We’ve got plenty of time for that later though, I suppose, and I can promise you that there’s so much more you’ll have to do than just take it in your hand.”
The fact that I couldn’t reply to any of his blathering didn’t seem to bother Michael in the slightest because he was clearly off his tits on something. I recalled that he’d worked his way through his ma’s entire cocaine stash the last time he’d stayed at Albermarle, and right now he was quite happy to keep the conversation going for both of us.
“Anyway, I have lots to do in an impossibly tight timeframe so we must get on, but I honestly cannot tell you how much I’ve looked forward to the day we finally got you back,” Michael said, with the sudden and highly worrying air of a kid on Christmas Day about him. “So, first things first. Once I finally discovered that you were within reach I realised that I could solve the problem of you going astray and teach you a valuable lesson at the same time.”
He returned to the tool shelf and this time he picked up a small butane torch and what appeared to be a mangled wire coat hanger with a strip of cloth tied around one end as a makeshift handle.
He grinned and brandished the wire in my face. “Okay, before we do anything else this evening I’m going to brand you, you little shit. If it works for cattle, it can work for our property too,” he said, all trace of bonhomie vanished without trace.
I looked at the crude tangle and guessed that in what was left of the crazy fucker’s mind it looked like a decent go at the Albermarle crest, and I gave a snort of laughter. It probably wasn’t the most sensible response, but my first thought was that Lilith would have made a far better stab at it because despite the mad twat’s obvious pride in his craftsmanship the bloody thing looked like exactly what it was: a rusted metal coat hanger that had been inexpertly twisted into something that might resemble the letter ‘A’ if you squinted at it from a decent enough distance.
As I might have expected, Michael didn’t approve of my reaction. “You won’t be laughing soon, you arrogant fucker,” he said, then ripped off the duct tape that covered my mouth. “And let’s just remove this for now, eh? I really want to hear you scream for me when I do this.”
It wasn’t the physical pain that scared me – well, scared me most; a fella would have to be a bloody idiot not to feel a bit twitchy about a mad bastard about to brand him with a red-hot coat hanger – it was what it represented.
From years of grinding lit cigarettes into my arms and hands just to feel something, to inflict a minute penance for the sins I’d committed, I knew that burns scarred deep; even with my suntan and innumerable bottles of Vitamin E oil massaged by Lili into the tiny discs of raised, angry flesh, they still remained as shadowy reminders of my bad times. But at least I had created them, possibly as some warped act of agency; this time the mark would literally be a brand, a permanent scar on my skin made with a shite, home-made branding iron and inflicted by a man who represented all that I thought I had long left behind.
To my rising dread I didn’t think I could get through this one.
Whatever Michael had planned, branding me was only the first trial and I couldn’t afford to fail so quickly. In my last remaining seconds of sanity I sent out my second prayer of the day to St Jude. On the basis that I was still alive I figured he’d answered my first one after a fashion, although I had no idea what he could do about my helplessness and rising panic or the wire grasped in Michael’s hand that was destined for my skin.
Then I heard Lilith’s voice, as loud and clear as if she had been standing right next to me. Not an auditory hallucination this time, although even one of those might have been welcome; just a flawless and untouchable memory, arriving in perfect time.
“Just stay afloat.”
Three words. Nothing at all in the grand scheme of things but in these most desperate of circumstances they saved me from drowning, because I grabbed hold of the scene that they conjured up with every sense that I possessed. I let the recollection of that flawless and iridescent day flood every corner of my consciousness: the Sun on my back, the crystalline, azure Mediterranean sea, the warm scent of the olive groves drifting across the sand, and best of all, Lilith’s soft, encouraging kiss and the blessed hours that had followed when we’d finally both declared our love.
I had my point of focus. In that pristine moment all had been well, and now I promised myself I could – I would – stay afloat no matter what.
Michael reverently stroked at an area of skin on my chest with a sterile wipe. I supposed it was a good thing that he was following correct hygiene procedures whilst being a sadistic cunt. “The perfect spot,” he said. “Right above the heart, to show who it truly belongs to.”
I swore I could see every bead of sweat on that mad bastard’s forehead as he lit the butane torch and aimed the hottest part of the flame on his homemade brand. Within seconds it began to turn an infernal red. By the time it glowed white-hot Michael’s breath was coming in hitched little gasps and his eyes glittered in an unholy union of lust and triumph, and I realised that there was every chance he was going to have an orgasm whilst he carried out the job.
Just stay afloat
“Feel free to howl, Finn,” Michael said, then without further ceremony he stamped the brand hard into my chest. It made contact with a sputtering hiss and a sulphurous reek of burning hair and flesh, and my God, the pain was like nothing I’d ever felt as skin and muscle and fat and nerves were incinerated beneath the searing metal. If I’d ever thought that my old habit with a lit cigarette could somehow prepare me for the sensation I was proved wrong in a mere moment. It was the difference between a lover’s caress and a left hook from a heavyweight champion.
I push off from the rocky outcrop and let myself glide under the water for as long as my breath will allow. I surface and feel the Sun’s warmth on my face. Lilith wraps her arms around me and kisses me and in that moment all is joy
It hurt beyond belief, but I stayed silent. I clenched my teeth so hard that I feared them splintering and my breath came ragged and hard, but that was the only sound that I made and I didn’t once break eye contact as Michael held the searing metal against my skin.
I might not have possessed Lilith’s studied nonchalance under fire but my lack of response was still enough to knock a bit of that greasy smirk off his face, because he definitely wasn’t looking as happy as he’d been at the start of his mad-fucker ritual. Familiarity had taught me that I would no doubt pay for my disobedience later in the game, but for now I didn’t care. I had gained a victory and I had proved to myself that I could stay afloat.
Michael shook his head. “That was almost impressive, but oh I am going to enjoy retraining you so we can get all that defiance out of your system. You’re seriously overdue some proper discipline, aren’t you? No gain without pain, as the saying goes,” he added with a stoned little giggle. “My mother taught me that one, as you might have guessed.”
To make sure he’d bludgeoned his point home he ran his right index finger down the weeping, raw wound that he’d just created and I was almost glad when he replaced the duct tape over my mouth, so that the decision to stay quiet was once again no longer mine to make.
I braced myself for him to touch the burn a second time, but there was a hard knock at the door and Michael’s attention turned to whoever was behind it.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lilith
“Here we are, Your Highness,” Ciaran grunted as the van finally slowed and the tyres popped and crackled over rough gravel. “All safely delivered. Bit of a downgrade from The Rossmont I’m afraid, but it might do you good to slum it for a change.” He stepped out of the cab and opened the rear doors. “And now it’s time for me to have some real fun, you posh wee slag.”
I refused to acknowledge him; instead I winced as muscles and joints moved for the first time in what felt like forever, then shuffled as gracefully as I could on my backside to the exit. I got to my feet on the muddy, uneven terrain and took a surreptitious glance around in the vain hope that I might see a familiar landmark, or even just someone I could call out to. No such luck; it appeared that we had arrived at the industrial estate at the arse-end of the Universe on a stormy, freezing and pitch-black winter’s night. I could hear waves in the near distance as they crashed against, what? A wall? A pier? Definitely something manufactured anyway, which suggested some sort of harbour.
A perfect departure point, I realised with horror.
