Лиз Мистри – Last Request (страница 8)

I love listening to my voice narrating as if I am a mere bystander and not an active part of it all. Everything up until that point is enjoyable – of course it is – but it’s doing my David Attenborough bit that really makes my blood fizz. Homing in on small details, analysing the scenes – that’s what I love best. And if I’m right, this one is a particularly well-produced cinematic performance. Here we go …

We see the figure, dressed in black – oh, how spooky! Arms under the captive’s arms, he is dragged through and flopped with all due finesse onto the chair.

In this wide-angled shot, we see the figure exit stage right, returning within seconds. Rope is wrapped round the captive’s arms, legs and chest. Things are hotting up now.

Note how the captive barely reacts – no resistance. No awareness of his surroundings. No understanding of the basic premise of this experiment. His privilege sets him above us mere mortals. His sense of worth lends him an arrogance, an entitlement denied the hordes that flock here. Tonight, as on previous nights, his true worth, his true character, will be ascertained and he will ultimately get his just desserts.

Sound-over – clapping hands and gleeful chuckle.

Now to wake him up – bring him out of his stupor.

The figure slaps our captive – once … twice … three times across the face. Our captive groans, his eyes flicker – open briefly then close, keeping his audience on tenterhooks.

The figure, hooded drape trailing the floor, leaves in silence, returning within seconds carrying a bowl. With an agile twist of the hands, the bowl’s contents are thrown over the captive, eliciting a frenzied jolting movement. It has the desired effect. The ice-cold water wakes the specimen up, makes him focus and … ah – he speaks, in the bewildered tones of a baby deserted by its mama.

‘Wh – what the f …? Where am I?’

Zooming in for the close-up we can see his pupils are dilated – pulse increasing, thrashing around. We’ve got ourselves a lively one. Wonder if he’s as clever as he is lively. Time will tell. We’ll soon see. Now for the main event. Ha ha! Fingers crossed he lives up to expectation.

The figure speaks. ‘Have you earned your place here? Your position? Have you earned it? Or is it all about Daddy’s wealth – privilege – entitlement?’

Do tell. Indeed, do tell.

The captive glances round the space – sees the table and the knife. Begins to struggle against his constraints and, at last, he speaks.

‘What are you doing? Let me go. What the fuck you doing?’

The figure’s response is low but if we strain, we can hear it ‘Ascertaining your worth. I thought that was clear. That’s the purpose of this. Why should you be here with all your privilege and not Joe Bloggs from down the road in Holmewood or Tyresal.’

‘You’re fucking mad – mental. Let me go. Right now – just let me fucking go.’

Note the heightened colour on his face, the flush of rouge over his cheeks as he struggles. His fingers fisted, held tight. Observe the whitening across his knuckles. This one’s a fighter.

Let’s see if he also has a modicum of intelligence.

‘We have rules. Easy rules. Rules an imbecile can follow. I expect you to comply. Will you?’

Alas, our captive continues to struggle, displaying an abject inability to correctly analyse the situation. His head shakes rapidly from side to side; his upper body, though trapped, strains against the rope. With the sad desperation of a failing man, he makes a vain attempt to wrench his tied hands apart. In his increased state of tension, the pitch of his voice rises, higher and higher to a shriek of desperation.

‘Fuck off. Let me go. Fuck off or I’ll kill you.’

Note the figure’s placatory response – soothing, yet with the promise of a reprimand implicit in the delivery. ‘Really? That’s the most intelligent thing you can say?’

Watch closely, for things are going to pick up speed now and you don’t want to miss anything. See how the figure picks up the item from the floor. Did you notice it lying there? Never mind, it was easy to miss in the muted lighting. But wait for this bit.

As the camera pans out, the figure approaches the captive. The long slender metal, glinting beneath the subdued stage lights.

Still, the captive is oblivious to the threat that approaches him so slowly. The figure slaps the bar against the palm of one hand causing the captive to glance up. With lightning speed, the figure strikes, jabbing the cattle prod onto the captive’s thigh.

The captive jerks back and screams.

‘Are you ready to listen to the rules?’ The figure raises the prod, waves it in sight of the captive. The specimen’s eyes water, a single stream of liquid rolls down his right cheek. He nods.

Bravo! Specimen is under control.

Sound-over – clapping and cheering.

Watch now as we find out the rules of play.

‘That’s more like it. Rule one – you must answer every question. Rule two – you may not pass on any question. Rule three – if you get five questions in a row right, you will be released. You will have earned your freedom. Rule four – for each incorrect answer you will be punished. Rule five – your fate is in your own hands. When you have had enough and don’t want to play anymore then we will move onto your last request. Do you understand?’

Ha! Now we see the typical response of a captive in denial. See how he shakes his head.

No matter. That will change. For now, enjoy his simple mistakes.

‘No, no – ’course I don’t. I don’t get it, not at all. Let me go. Let me go.’

You see what he’s done, don’t you? His rookie mistake? Now for the consequences.

‘Wrong answer number one.’

Watch the concentration as the figure picks up a knife, studies it. Runs his finger along the blade and then approaches the captive. It’s all about care and precision …

I hear a sound outside the door and quickly turn off the DVD. Never mind. There will be plenty of time later. Plenty of time.

Chapter 7

‘Oy, Deano, get your arse over here, right now, ya tosser.’

Deano’s heart sank as the Ferrari pulled up to the kerb outside Chicken Cottage. Last thing he needed right now, when he didn’t know if Kayleigh was all right, was to have a convo with her old man. He burped, took a last swig from his Vimto and tossed the can into the gutter, before stuffing the last of his burger into his mouth and throwing the polystyrene food container after the can. Wiping his hands down the front of his joggers, he approached the car. Shoulders hunched, big-man glower on his face, he ignored the passenger and spoke over his head to the driver. In situations like this, the only thing you could do was brazen it out. He’d find out soon enough if Franco knew. ‘Y’aright there, Franco?’

Franco – tall but skinny, cap on backwards, pockmarked face and ice-cold eyes – cast a sideways look at Deano. He shook his head and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel twice. As if on some sort of preordained order, the prick, Big Zee, thrust the passenger door open, crashing it into Deano’s legs and jumped out, quickly repositioning himself in the back seat, beside another one of Franco’s goons. Deano wanted to slam his fist into the idiot’s sneering face, but contented himself with hoiking a gob of phlegm into the gutter. It was pushing it for Franco to come back to Listerhills. Thing was he didn’t get it – too arrogant. Didn’t he realise Parekh would never let him get away with supplying to her nephew?

‘Get in.’ Franco’s words were an order and Deano had no option but to obey. He was in too deep and Franco knew it … but did he know about him and Kayleigh? With a quick glance along the road, Deano wished that Nikki hadn’t disappeared off with that big Paki dick. He slid into the front seat, next to Franco and tried to angle himself to the side, out of arm’s reach of Big Zee and his sidekick in the back. Deano had been in too many similar situations in the past not to be aware of what was coming. How many times had he been the one to move to the back seat, ready to slip a chain round the neck of the idiot Franco was grilling in the front seat if he didn’t deliver the goods?

‘Little bird told me you were talking to that Parekh bint?’

Fuck, word travelled fast! Deano laughed, tried to look nonchalant, hoping his face wasn’t giving owt away. He was caught with his balls between a rapidly closing vice. On the one hand, Parekh had made her threat clear and Deano couldn’t risk Franco finding out about him skimming. No way did he want to end up as pig food on one of them farms in the Dales. He’d seen too many end up there. On the other, Parekh was no pushover. She’d made her intentions clear. The only option open to him was to strike some sort of deal with her. What the hell was he going to do? ‘Yes, frigid bitch. She needs a good seeing to, to loosen her up a bit.’