...From working on POS. I'm tapped out. Here's some of what I did, today.
They dragged me into the nearest building and down a short corridor into a room -- and I do mean dragged; I was not allowed to walk for that might have made me seem human, I suppose -- and I was slammed into a chair before a table, with two similar chairs opposite me and beyond them the one and only door. My hands remained cuffed. The room was blank, its walls not really white but of so sterile a color they might as well have been. A window with a glassy surface was perhaps three feet to my left; about six feet of open space was to my right. In one corner stood a guard in full armor -- chest, helmet, belt with God knows how many different weapons on it, his rifle held ready. His eyes stayed on me, wary, waiting for me to move wrong or give him any excuse to blast me in half if need be. I’d no idea I was considered so dangerous.
I finally noticed a pair of long cameras in two different upper corners of the room, both aimed at the table. They did not move, did not even blink as they stared impassively at me. I wondered if they were even truly engaged, or if they were intended for show, only. Give a lad a sense of security enough to let his guard down, thinking they’re dare not hurt him with cameras recording it all, and his tongue might loosen just enough to make use of. I decided that they were recording, but that since the Army controlled this room it also controlled what happened in it and to any videotape that might be useful as evidence, so I’d be left with nothing to protect me.
Now I still was sore from my encounter with the RUC -- not too badly so, merely enough to notice when I moved wrong -- so naturally I began to wonder if they intended to “interrogate” me in the same manner. But I saw no phone book, and the floor was made of a single piece of linoleum that was well-worn, so any blood would stain it in ways that could not be got out, yet I saw no traces of that in it, right now. Perhaps they planned only to ask a few questions. One can hope.
I coughed. That fuckin’ bastard cough that I can’t control when I’m scared. And I was fuckin’ scared. Facing the impassivity of that room, it took everything I had in me to keep from screaming and begging and praying for deliverance. For you see, I no longer had any illusions about myself. I recalled all too well how easily I’d been broken by Davy and his mates. Seems they’d spent more time checking out my story than dragging it from me, which brought a wave of shame over me at my lack of will...and it mattered not that I’d given them nothing of use. Had I not had my history with Joanna to explain my actions, I know they’d have kept at me and I’d have given names and dates and places and anything they bloody wanted from me, and never you mind they’d all be lies. A man will say anything he must to end that sort of torture. The thought of being put to that point, again, made me ill, and I could all too easily see the mere threat of physical harm making me weep and cower and hand Colm over to them along with Paidrig and even Kieran.
Even Kieran. My brother. Who hated me. Well...who at least looked down upon me, and him being ten years my junior. I won’t say I saw contempt in his eyes when he glared at me, or even disappointment. It was more like he thought me typical of those who’re willing to let others fight their fights for them.
I coughed, again. Cleared my throat. Went back to my twang. “Could I have some water, please?”
The guard didn’t even blink, just stood there like he was made of wires and plastic.
I coughed, again. Twice. It was coming harsher and I was threatening to shake, again, which was the last thing I wanted them to see. I took in some deep breaths and cried out, since I knew someone was behind that window and listening, at the very least, “Please, I just need a drink of water.”
Nothing. Of course. Soften up the Papist. Act the part of a complete and bloody fool who’ll never understand that if you treat a man like a dog his whole life, it does you no good to punish him for biting you in thanks for that treatment. The bastards. The fuckin’ bastards. The stupid, fuckin’ -- .
Whist. The door quietly opened, ending my mental tirade before it became verbal, and two men came in, neither of them in uniform. One was older with half-gray hair and a long English nose topping a moustach, his vested suit perfectly tailored; the other was close to my age and subtly deferential to his mate, his suit obviously off a men’s rack at Marks & Spencer. Neither of them had welcoming eyes as they sat in the chairs opposite me.
Tailored held a folio which he opened as he asked, “Is your name Brendan Kinsella?” His voice dripped with aristocratic condescension.
Fuck you, ya bastard, I thought, and anything you think you got from the RUC, then In my best Texas, I croaked, “I wanna talk to the ‘Merican Consulate.”
This isn't all I did -- I have an additional11 pages beyond it and it's just getting started, plus I reworked the moments leading up to this...but it was tough. Damn tough.
And in response, Brendan just shakes his head at me, in derision.
A quick note to add -- I went to this site http://iwl.me/ to have some of POS analyzed...and it says I write like James Joyce! Holeeeeeeeee CRAP! That killed the blues, for damn sure.