Blood On Borrowed Wings: A Dark Fantasy Thriller by Darren Stapleton

innocuously entitled ‘The Extraction and Retention of Information’ I did not have time for the psychological manipulation or button pressing that elicited the deepest, detailed response. Speed was paramount as Pan was watching the corridor with the good set of Night-Vis goggles, a crossbow and possibly a concussion. I had no idea where we were or if guard reinforcements were on the way. We had five minutes at best, maybe less, before I started to be the wrong side of comfortable.
    Rapid-fire, closed-questions set up a rhythm of interrogation/response that offered up little time for consideration. This normally resulted in quick, honest answers, without embellishment or fabrication. In short, if the answer came straight away, it was the truth, if it missed a beat, it was usually a lie or an attempt at hiding something not mentioned.
    ‘Name.’
    ‘What?’
    Slap.
    ‘Name.’
    He panted, ‘Ghyll.’
    ‘Where are we?’
    ‘In a cell.’
    Slap. Harder this time.
    ‘Where is the cell?’
    ‘Deadlands. Swamp.’
    ‘How many guards?’
    ‘Erm...three, including me.' Pause, he looked up, 'Others will be here soon though.’ Lie.
    ‘Keys?’
    ‘Two sets.’
    Slap.
    ‘Oh. Of course. Wait… the master set is in the back room, in a small cupboard beside the monitors. You have mine plus one of the guys has the other set on him.’
    Truth. I had found all of the keys exactly where he said they were. These were all answers I knew or could have guessed but they established the pattern. I wanted short, accurate responses and he now knew unsatisfactory answers would induce punishment. I kept the beat going and stepped up the questions. Three and a half minutes left by my reckoning.
    ‘He doesn't have those keys any more. Now, who are you working for?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    Truth.
    ‘Who paid you?’
    He paused, missed a beat, ‘I don’t know.’
    I pressed my thumb down into the squashy, tenderised bridge of his nose. He bucked beneath me and screamed. His breathing quickened into hitching dry rasps and he fought to get a different answer out.
    ‘We duh… d… didn’t get paid.’
    Truth again.
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘They were onto us.’
    ‘They?’
    ‘Never met them. They sent us photos. Bad ones.’
    ‘Of?’
    ‘Us. Doing bad things to the slu… the women from the Angelbrawl.’
    ‘Blackmail?’
    ‘They had pictures of us all.'
    I stayed quiet.
    'Fucking. Stabbing. Laughing. Killing. I told the boys, I said….’
    ‘Did they threaten you?’
    ‘Wuh… What? Didn’t have to. That was threat enough.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘What do you mean…’
    I pressed both thumbs down into the soft bludgeoned mass of his nose. He flinched and screamed again, this time it was higher pitched and went on for longer. I relieved the pressure and wiped my hands on his shirt.
    ‘F… Fuh… Fuh… Fuck. They said… uh… they would turn us in... that we would swing… uh, and gave us your picture, and seat number,’ he gestured towards the corner of the room where the door was, with his mangled face, ‘and ringside tickets to the 'Brawl.’
    ‘Instructions?’
    ‘To drug you both… bring you here. They knew we knew how, they had got pictures of us doing it before.’
    ‘They?’
    ‘I don’t know, someone high up the food chain. Connected. Didn’t say his name.’
    ‘Mudhead or criminal?’
    ‘Bad. Someone bad. Not Mudhead. Worse. Much worse.’
    ‘Then?’
    ‘Then? There was nothing else. We thought we would find out… later. Someone is due soon, I swear it.’
    ‘What is your name?’
    ‘What? You’ve already asked me…’
    ‘Name.’ I raised my voice for the first time.
    ‘Ghyll.’
    ‘What aren’t you telling me, Ghyll?’
    ‘Everything. I mean nothing. Nothing.’
    I saw him close his eyes ready for more pain.
    I did not move or make a sound.
    ‘Look. Listen. I’m telling you everything….’
    He braced himself as if waiting for a slap. Perfect. I disappointed him and stayed quiet and motionless.