The Becket Approval by Falconer Duncan (best big ereader .TXT) 📗

side and onto the flatbed where he landed hard. When he opened his eyes he found himself looking at Granger’s face inches from his own.

His partner's eyes were dry, his face streaked in flaking scabs and coated with sand.

Poor bastard had been dead for hours.

Gunnymede lay silently in the sun facing Granger long enough to begin to doze before the men climbed back in and sat around him as the engine fired up. Granger and Gunnymede were shoved tightly together into the centre so the fighters could use them as foot rests.

It was a painful journey as he bounced over the endless ruts. The engine transmission vibrated through the metal floor and his entire body. The most strenuous part was keeping his head off the bed each time they went over a bump to prevent his skull from being cracked open.

The journey lasted several hours and included a stop to refuel and relieve bowels. Gunnymede was left with Granger without a sip of water.

He suspected they’d arrived at their destination when the men clambered out, the engines died and the air was filled with voices like a crowded market place. A sack was placed over his head and he was manhandled off the truck and shuffled through crowds of people. His shoulder hit something immovable. His guide pushed him onwards. All thoughts of his partner faded as the question of his own fate took pole position.

He was yanked around a corner and it suddenly went darker. The cacophony dropped away. The air became cooler. Sounds echoed. He brushed a stone wall with a shoulder and a few steps later brushed another with his other side. His nostrils filled with the smell of musky carpets.

He could make out lights above his head through the sacking fibre. A string of lightbulbs. The ground dropped steeply away and he almost fell down several stone steps. He reached the bottom and the back of his shirt was harshly grabbed to halt him. The stairway had led into a small chamber with lights on the walls. The sound of keys jangled. A lock was turned. A door creaked open.

Gunnymede was shoved through and his hood removed. He blinked the dust from his eyes to find himself standing in a damp, windowless, stone room that looked mediaeval. A couple of bulbs on cables provided the only light. Half a dozen other people were in the room, sitting or lying on the dirt floor in chains.

Gunnymede’s guide slammed him in the gut with a wooden rod totally winding him. A second blow to his back forced him to his knees. The guide then left, closing the door behind him. The heavy lock turned with a clunk followed by the muffled jingle of keys as they were removed.

Gunnymede could sense someone behind him and turned enough to see a fighter, presumably the guard, sitting on a wooden chair beneath one of the dim bulbs. He looked at Gunnymede coldly.

Gunnymede took a look at his new home. The room was long and narrow with space for many more guests. Each man had his own piece of wall to sit against. Their feet were shackled, their hands free. But their greatest restraint appeared to be their lack of physical well-being. They looked malnourished. A foul smell came from them. They were all sitting in their own shit and urine.

Gunnymede’s mouth was bone dry and he looked around for any sign of refreshments. ‘Water?’ he said to the guard.

The guard jutted his chin towards a bucket in a corner. Gunnymede shuffled over to it. A wooden bucket half filled with water with bits floating in it. He leaned down to smell it. A bit musky but he wasn’t in a position to be choosy. He lowered his face into it and sucked up as much as he could in case he didn’t get another chance.

When he straightened up again he looked around the accommodation, saw a space, made his way over to it and sat back against the cold, uncomfortable wall, his hands still tied behind him. He regarded his fellow inmates, heavily bearded and gaunt. The Count of Monte Cristo came to mind. Two were asleep or unconscious, or worse. It was difficult to assess in the poor light. The others looked at him. Two were white. The other two looked Latino or Middle Eastern. All were in a sorry state. Their poor physical condition was a reminder that if an escape attempt was to be made it had to be sooner rather than later.

Three of the men went back to whatever daydreaming they did while one continued to look at him. Gunnymede felt the man wanted to say something.

‘How long’ve you been here?’ Gunnymede asked.

The guard immediately sprang to his feet and lunged at Gunnymede with his wooden rod. Gunnymede instinctively fell to his side in an effort to avoid the blow, squeezing his eyes shut, bracing for it.

It didn’t come. He opened his eyes to see the rod in the guard’s hand inches away.

‘No speak,’ the guard said.

He walked back to his chair and sat down.

Gunnymede shuffled back into a sitting position. The man opposite hadn’t moved. Gunnymede searched for a question in the man’s eyes, an expression perhaps, any kind of meaning. But as he stared he realised there was nothing in them but despair. He wasn’t trying to communicate. He was simply looking at someone new who would soon be like him.

Gunnymede dropped his head back against the wall and sighed inwardly. The ceiling was covered with small stalactites, formed by centuries of moisture seeping from above. His thoughts went to Granger. What were ops doing? Did they have any idea what had happened to the pair? Did they know where Gunnymede was?

He suddenly felt exhausted. Sleep encroached, rolling over him like a heavy cloak. He didn’t fight it.

When they came