The Tied Man

Finn sat at the table, belligerent and uncommunicative.  He knew I was there – had grunted something that might be loosely interpreted as an acknowledgement when I first walked in – but had said nothing for the next half hour.  Since our nocturnal meeting he would usually talk to me if we met at breakfast, so I guessed that he had had a rough night.  The new bruise that was just beginning to bloom across his right cheekbone and around his eye bore testament to my theory.

Finn

That morning, I wasn’t in the best of moods to begin with.   I’d spent most of the night before with a happily married CEO who had got loaded on speed and GHB and fucked me hard for hours without coming once and then hit me clear across the bedroom for making him betray his wife.  His loathing hadn’t stopped him from demanding one last hand job for his money, which at least finally did the trick, but by then the dawn was already creeping across the lake and sleep was no longer an option.

To really make my whole fucking day, I had run out of temazepam.  The final eight had been thrown down my throat the night before, and now the subtle ache that would soon grow to consume every muscle and nerve was heralding my unwilling withdrawal.  Blaine had informed me that the next supply was on its way, but that meant waiting for Coyle.  And playing his game.

I knew Lilith was there: the soft scratch of her pencil punctuated the silence as she drew something or other, but any energy I had was focused on the twin challenges of sitting down and not screaming as my rattle kicked in. I told myself that Lilith had probably figured out most of what was going on, so conversation was redundant.

Just as I was trying to work out the least uncomfortable way of standing up to refill my coffee, I heard the muted throb of the outboard motor as Coyle arrived on the island.  Relief that my next fix was at worst ten minutes away was tainted by the realisation that Lilith was going to witness whatever scenario the evil little shit had planned as sport.

Lilith

‘I’ve got something you might want,’ Coyle said, sing-song, and held up a small green-striped paper bag.  He sprawled across a kitchen chair, his legs spread wide.

Finn said nothing, just dragged slowly on his cigarette and gave Coyle his finest insolent glare.

‘So. I want to hear you ask for this really nicely.’  I couldn’t see Coyle’s face, but I could hear the smirk in his voice.

Finn slowly ground his smoke into a saucer.  ‘Please.’

Coyle tutted.  ‘Now that wasn’t nicely, was it?  Try again, faggot.’

‘Please could I have my prescription?’

‘There now.  Not too hard, was it?’ Coyle strolled around the table and held out the packet.  As Finn reached out, his grinning tormentor snatched it away again.

‘Cunt,’ Finn muttered, and Coyle hit him on the back of the head with a resounding slap.

‘You shit-stabbing twat,’ Coyle spat with sudden, chilling hate.  ‘I’ll fucking kill you, you speak like that to me again.’  He hit Finn once more, harder this time, back-handing him across the face. ‘You hear me?’

Finn didn’t even look up, and I started to feel genuinely scared for him.

‘You want to try goin’ for a day without these things, huh?  Is that what you want?  You piece of fuckin’ homo filth, you show me some respect or I swear to God I’ll have you rattlin’ ‘til you howl before you get your hands on these little beauties.  You hear me now?’  Another slap.  ‘You hear me?’  Another.  ‘What, you didn’t get enough of this last night?  You want some more?’  Now Coyle bunched his hand into a meaty fist and I had had enough.

‘Stop that.’ I stood up from my hiding place by the stove.

Coyle spun around.  ‘Good morning, Ms Bresson.  I had no idea that you were there.  I do apologise if our banter was distressing you.’

‘Stop hitting him, give him what he wants and then get out.’ I could hear an alien, sharp edge to my voice.  I had never felt this nervous in confrontation.

‘Why?  Disturbing your chat, was I?’  Coyle sat back down.  ‘Is he telling you how he moans like a schoolgirl when he’s getting screwed up the arse, huh?  That’s what his customers like about him, you know.  He’s a noisy little fucker, aren’t you, Finn-boy?’ Coyle laughed and ruffled Finn’s hair.  ‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard him: Oh yeah, give it to me hard,’ he cried in obscene mockery.  ‘Good and loud, so they leave a bigger tip.  Or maybe he was describing how he got found by the gardai, passed out on the smack down a Dublin back alley with some old fella’s spunk joinin’ the shit running down his legs?’