The Dying Place. Luca Veste

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       The Farm

       Six Months Ago

      Goldie was alive, there was that at least. When he’d first been grabbed off the street, beaten until he could barely breathe without feeling the pain all over his body, he’d felt for sure that was it. That he’d pissed off the wrong person once too often and was now going to pay the price. He’d heard stories about the gangsters out there in the city and what they could do to you if they wanted.

      He was expecting the end. Tried to work out which dealer he hadn’t paid properly or what he’d promised that he hadn’t delivered, but couldn’t think of a thing.

      When he was dragged along the muddy track outside, a sawn-off shotgun pointed at his chest the whole way, Goldie was thinking about all the things he was about to lose.

      It amounted to very little.

      There was his family, he guessed. What was left of it, anyway. One brother locked up, doing at least fifteen years for manslaughter. Hadn’t seen his dad in years – didn’t much care.

      Now there was just him and his mum. And whoever she was seeing at the time, of course.

      That was all gone. All he had now was the large room they’d shoved him in, the darkness within masking its real form. He ached from the ride in the back of the van and the beating inside. His breathing was shallow, as the adrenaline he’d been feeling earlier began to wane and he became used to sucking in full lungfuls of oxygen again.

      That’s the thing they never showed you on TV. When your mouth is gagged, you have to breathe through your nose. Goldie’s had been broken a few years before that night, which had left it resembling one of those shit paintings he’d seen in art, by the bloke with one ear or something. Or that other one. Art wasn’t exactly his strongest subject. That earlier injury had left his nose skew-whiff, at an angle. Bone blocking one nostril, so breathing with his mouth closed became difficult after a while.

      He waited a few minutes, just kneeling down in the dark, breathing in and out. Wondering why they’d left him there.

      ‘Hello?’

      The voice came from across the room as a whisper, shitting Goldie up big time. He scrabbled back, only being stopped by the solid wall behind him and the pain that resulted from hitting it.

      ‘Who’s there?’

      The voice was a little louder now, more hiss than whisper. Goldie sensed something behind it.

      Fear.

      He felt the same way.

      Goldie stood up, his eyes still adjusting to the pitch black, and began slowly feeling his way forwards. Arms out in front of him, sweeping his legs back and forth.

      ‘I’m Goldie, mate. Where are you?’

      ‘Over by my bed.’

      Goldie stopped as he heard the reply come from a couple of feet away from him to his left. His eyes were adjusting now, the shape and form of things becoming clearer. He could make out a bed, two in fact, on his left. Mirrored to his right. That was it though. No other furniture.

      He could smell piss coming from further away.

      ‘What’s your name?’ Goldie said, coming to a stop at the bed opposite.

      ‘Dean. Just got here?’

      Goldie nodded, before thinking better of it. ‘Yeah. What’s going on? Why do you keep fuckin’ whispering?’

      There was a creak from the bed as Dean moved, Goldie imagined rather than saw.

      ‘Because they’re out there, listening all the time. You don’t want them to get mad. Believe me.’

      Goldie barked a laugh. ‘You’re paranoid, lad.’

      He wouldn’t find it funny after a while.

      Things were calm for the first few days. They’d drop meals off for the two of them. Dean told him he’d been there for a few weeks at least. Two men had taken him, he thought. He wasn’t sure, as it’d happened fast and he’d been a bit stoned.

      Goldie didn’t believe the things he said had been done to him since then.

      Light got into the room during the day. Not enough to be comfortable, but at least they could move about without worrying they’d bang into something in the darkness.

      Boredom was the problem in the beginning. Goldie decided to fill his time trying to find a way out of there, examining every part of the room.

      By the third day he’d given up. There was nothing to find. Every inch was solid, reinforced.

      The only way out was through the door which he’d come in.

      He СКАЧАТЬ