Hideout by Jack Heath (iphone ebook reader txt) 📕

The sun is going down as I follow Donnie to the slaughterhouse. He has a spring in his step and he’s spinning the battleaxe in his hands.

The old FBI director, Peter Luzhin, used to steal the cadavers of death-row inmates. That was how he rewarded me for solving cases. I sometimes watched the executions. The condemned men would shuffle into the execution chamber as though their shoes were made of lead. Their heads bowed as if before a vengeful God.

Now I understand how they felt.

‘Keep up, Lux,’ Donnie says. ‘It’s getting late.’

I force myself to walk a little faster. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t kill her, all right? Cuts and bruises are fine, and broken bones aren’t a problem, but don’t chop off anything that she might bleed out through.’

‘We should wait,’ I say. ‘The cameras are still broken.’

‘That’s the point,’ Donnie says. ‘No offence, but it takes skill to do what I do. Think of this as a dry run. An audition.’

‘But I wanted the first time to be recorded.’

Donnie holds up his phone. ‘Gotcha covered.’

He hauls the slaughterhouse door open. The screaming turns into whimpering when the prisoners see our masks and Donnie’s axe. We’re not here to save them. We’re here to make things worse.

Donnie walks over to Thistle, who is slumped on the floor, unconscious. She must be exhausted after pulling on her chains all day. Her wrists are red and raw. Instead of her Hello Kitty T-shirt, she’s wearing a loose suit with a skirt and a fake FBI lanyard. The Guards have given her a costume. The thought that one of them watched her undress, or stripped her, makes me feel sick.

‘Wake up, bitch,’ Donnie says. ‘It’s Judgement Day.’

Thistle doesn’t move.

Donnie nudges her foot with his own. ‘Hey. FBI lady.’

Thistle doesn’t react to this.

‘Maybe we should come back another time,’ I say.

‘Screw that.’ Donnie leans down and grabs Thistle’s hair. ‘Wake up, you—’

Thistle drops the act and lashes out at him with her free hand. At the same time, she tries to kick his kneecap inside out.

But Donnie must have been half-expecting this. He lets go of her and darts back, twisting his leg just enough to protect his knee. The punch which should have broken his nose glances harmlessly off the top of his head.

‘Whoa!’ He laughs. ‘She’s a fighter. This is gonna be fun.’

Thistle looks warily from him to me. ‘What you do right now could be the difference between a prison sentence and a lethal injection.’

Donnie smirks and hands me the axe. The blade is chipped and the wooden handle is rough. It’s not as heavy as it looks, but it’s still sharp and long enough to do some damage.

‘Go to town, Lux,’ he says.

‘Sure,’ I say, thinking fast. ‘But not on her.’

Donnie looks puzzled. ‘But she’s yours. We got her for you.’

One of Thistle’s nostrils lifts up, like she’s thinking about spitting on me.

If I refuse to torture a prisoner, my cover is blown, and the prisoner will be brutalised by the other Guards. So my plan is to fake it—but it has to be very convincing. That means someone might get hurt for real, and I don’t want it to be Thistle.

I lean close to Donnie. ‘It’s all about the anticipation,’ I whisper. ‘She has to see someone else take a beating. Let that simmer for a few days.’

Donnie looks impressed. ‘That’s cold. I like it.’

I point to the woman in the shredded evening gown, chained to a loop in the door of the priest’s confessional. The Abuser, who burned her husband with the lighter. She moans.

‘I want that one,’ I say.

Donnie looks uncertain. ‘Ivy? Fred usually does her.’

‘Oh. I can choose someone else?’

All the other prisoners tense up. Amar, the Terrorist, mutters a prayer.

‘No,’ Donnie says. ‘It’s probably okay.’

I give the axe back to Donnie. ‘You can keep that.’

‘You sure?’

I flex my hands. ‘These are all I need.’

Ivy crawls backwards as I approach, until the chain around her ankle goes taut. Her skin is unblemished, and she’s not as thin as the others, even though they’re all served the same dog food. Maybe she hasn’t been here as long. Or maybe it’s metabolic. Some people eat nothing but sugar yet stay thin, while others eat nothing at all and stay fat.

The point is, she has some cushioning. What I’m about to do won’t hurt as much.

I tell myself that’s the only reason I picked her. Not because, if this doesn’t work, I might have to convince Donnie by taking a bite out of her.

‘Get up,’ I tell her.

She does, slowly, staring at the stained concrete with her large, dark eyes. She’s beautiful. Maybe that’s why the subscribers picked her. The prettier the car, the prettier the crash.

I can’t give her any kind of non-verbal signal if she won’t make eye contact. ‘Look at me.’

She doesn’t. She just trembles.

The church confessional is right there. Ivy is the only prisoner with any potential privacy. I wish I could take her inside and explain. But I can’t think of a believable pretext. So I grab her by the throat, slam the back of her skull against the wall next to the confessional—or it looks like I do. I kick the tin wall at the same moment, making a convincing boom.

The noise lasts just long enough to cover me as I whisper three syllables in her ear: ‘Play along.’

‘Don’t!’ she screams. I don’t know if it’s because she understood or because she didn’t. I pull back my fist, a big, dramatic gesture, and swing it at her. But just before it hits, in the moment when my body is blocking Donnie’s view, I open my palm, so the punch turns into a slap.