Why do I do this? Percival Bavidge sat in a dimly lit underground room, the one they had prepared for the next task that had befallen him as Superior. Some smudges of dubious origin smeared the plastered walls. Being an inquisitor in his Majesty’s service meant he spent a lot of his time underground, asking questions, scaring and hurting people. Prodding –occasionally torturing or flaying- blathering fools for information, for truth. Or for what they wanted the truth to be. Nothing of what I do was planned. I had dreams, and they definitely weren’t these kinds of dreams. As if to emphasise his thoughts, a long excruciating wail came from another interrogation room farther down the long hall.
He well remembered the conversation that had led to this moment. Arch Inquisitor Doyle had elevated him in one smooth gesture to Superior, offering him a vague mandate with considerable influence and power. Next, old Doyle with the flawless white hair had assigned him to follow up on some rumours concerning sedition, but most importantly he had to find out who the Tanner was.
A Practical snatched the canvas bag off the head of the unfortunate figure lying naked on the damp, uneven floor. The man was skinny, his hand manacled securely behind his back. Another Practical, this one tall and muscled as an ox, pulled the stinking excuse for a human into the chair facing Percy. The prisoner blinked a few times, his eyes red and watery in the bright candlelight.
“Your name is Thomas Farewell?” Percival asked, his voice like ice.
The naked man nodded. “It is indeed, but everyone simply calls me Tom. I can assure you that I have done nothing unlawful, nothing criminal,” he spoke fast and without the accent of the lower class. “No, that would not be my way at all, sir. I can think of no reason at all to be manhandled this way!” His eyes, adjusted now to the light, swivelled around the room. An observant man? Good. Let him look. Thomas Farewell continued, getting anxious for his eyes had fallen on the anvil next to the table. “I am a member of the mercer’s guild, a well-respected organisation. Well-respected indeed and in excellent standing.”
Superior Bavidge cracked his hammer down on the anvil. “Stop blabbering!” The sound of the impact reverberated throughout the small, damp room.
“Do you have any idea how tired I am? Of how much I have to do? We are going through troubled, stressful times currently and there are matters for me to attend to. It is, therefore, an extremely indifferent notion if you will leave here walking or crawling.” Percival did not think his point had come across sufficiently, so he piled on. “I do not care if you will be able to see for the rest of your life, able to take a piss whilst standing or keep your shit in.” He sighed and leant back into his chair. “Do you understand, Mister Farewell?” Percival almost giggled at the irony of his prisoner’s name.
Thomas Farewell looked up, wide-eyed, then glanced at the huge Practical that had dropped him into the chair like a sack of lard. “I understand.”
“Good,” Superior Bavidge conceded. “The rules of this game are simply. I ask a question,” he pointed at his own chest, then proceeded to count the criteria on his fingers “you answer correctly, precisely and, above all, briefly. Is that clear?”
“I understand completely, sir. I do not seek to speak other than to-” A fist the size of a full-grown man’s head sunk into the prisoner’s gut, courtesy of the huge Practical.
“Do you see that your answer there should have been ‘yes’?”
The man gagged and heaved, merely nodded to affirm the epiphany.
The big Practical seized the wheezing man’s foot and put it on the cold anvil, clasping irons around the ankle. Oh, cold metal on the sensitive sole! Quite unpleasant, indeed, but it could be so much worse. And something tells me it will be.
“I apologise for the lack of imagination, Mister Farewell.” Superior Percival Bavidge sighed once more. “In our defence, it is difficult to be always thinking of something new. I mean, smashing a man’s feet with a lump hammer is so…”
“Pedestrian?” The large, muscular Practical ventured.
Percy heard a sharp volley of laughter from the other, rank Practical standing beside the door, and felt his own mouth grinning. He should have been a comedian, rather than a torturer. He jumped on the boat. “Pedestrian! Precisely so. But don’t you worry, Mister Farewell. If we haven’t got what we need by the time we’ve crushed everything below your knees to pulp, we’ll see if we can think of something more inventive for the rest of your legs. Agreed? Agreed.”
“But I have done nothing wrong!” squealed the naked prisoner, just getting his breath back. “I know nothing! I did-”
Percy made a cutting movement in the air with the hammer, his face in a scowl. “Forget all that. It is meaningless. We know you write for the Pamphlet. We know you are Sam Well-Fare.” As if to illustrate the Superior threw a bundle of dirty papers on the table. They had been printed poorly, on recycled, smudgy paper. The runny ink told tales of sedition and treason. “We have watched you for some time now.”
Thomas Farewell sank back into the chair, beaten; then sprang up as the Superior gently tapped his foot with the hammer.
“What I want you to concentrate on… are my questions, and your toes, and this hammer. But don’t worry if you find that difficult. Believe me when I say that once the hammer starts falling, you will find it easy to ignore everything else.”
The prisoner stared at the anvil and hammer, passively resting on top of his foot. His nostrils were flaring and he breathed heavily. And the seriousness of the situation finally impresses itself on him.
“On to my questions, Mister Farewell. You are familiar with Alberic Bourneham?”
“Yes! Please! Yes! I know him, we have spoken a few times.”
Percy nodded and shifted in his chair, finding a more comfortable position. “What did you speak of?”
“Many things.” The Practical slapped him across the face, splitting a lip. “Concerning the living and working conditions!”
“Did you write for the Pamphlet?”
“What? But you already said that-”
Percy grimaced. “I know what I said. What are Mister Bourneham’s goals?”
“I don’t… I don’t… You have to ask him!”
“Oh, dear me, no.” The heavy hammer came down with all of Percy’s strength and crushed Farewell’s big toe flat with a dull thud. The writer gaped at it, eyes bulging from his head, almost ready to fall from his sockets. Ah, that beautiful, horrible moment between stubbing your toe and feeling the pain. Here it comes.
Thomas Farewell shrieked, squirmed around in his chair and reverted to wailing. His face was contorted with agony and horror.
“The Tanner,” Percival said.
The prisoner started talking. “The Tanner is the one who introduced us. The Tanner is the advocate for the poor man, the wronged man.”
“Who is this Tanner?”
“Nobody knows! He came from the country. He’s a tanner! Gah!”
It didn’t take a genius to figure that one out… Superior Bavidge nodded, pursed his lips and watched Thomas Farewell’s toe swell, turn purple for a moment. Then ordered the prisoner seized. "What else?"
"He's a widower, lost his children too..." Farewell was sobbing, staring at his tortured appendix. Groaning, the writer asked “Am I free to go?”
Percival, with a most magnificent grin nodded his consent. “Oh yes, Mister Farewell. You are free to go. Free to go back in your bag. Farewell, Mister Farewell, it fare you well!”
He hoped by the Maker he was zeroing in on this elusive bastard that was on everyone’s lips. The Tanner… You have an appointment with the headsman, my friend. Otherwise Doyle will send me in your stead, and I rather like my head where it is.
Member
jeroukoo,
Nightwing95,
Winston Smith,
Ezekiel