This exploration, however, ended in success. He found the door through which he’d been shoved, and beside it the predictable panel of switches to control light and ventilation. Cool white light showed him a bathroom—certainly a staff facility, for it had none of the amenities the family rooms would have had. A row of sinks set into a counter, with mirrors above—he winced away from his image—and a row of plumbing fixtures. The stack of clean glasses on the counter mocked him. How was he supposed to turn the water on? Or get it in the glass?
That struggle occupied him some time. The sinks had watersaving faucets, so that they would not run long without a finger on the control—and the control was mounted at a convenient height for someone with free hands. George had to hitch himself up onto a sink, almost sitting in it, to reach the control. . . . He was sure the entire counter—and-sinks arrangement was going to fall off the wall and cause a flood. He could turn the water on, but he could not drink, not while facing away from the sink. And the sinks had no plugs, so he could not fill one and drink from it. Finally he realized that he would have to take a glass from the stack and position it in a sink—all out of his sight—and then climb up to start the water and hope the glass was in the right position. Then take the glass out of the sink and set it on the counter, close enough to the edge that he could tip it with his mouth, and finally drink.
It took a very long time; he broke two glasses, cut his fingers, and almost decided that thirst was better than this struggle. But his stubbornness forced him on. And the lukewarm water, the half glass of it he managed to drink before the glass tipped over and spilled the rest down his chin and neck, tasted amazingly good. He could almost feel his brain cells soaking it up and going back to work. Now he would think of what to do; now he would get back to his own script for this miserable outing, and come out as he always did: clean, pressed, and in control.
It was not so bad, being locked in a bathroom. Basic bodily functions accounted for . . . he stopped, halfway to the fixture he had planned to use, and realized another problem. How was he supposed to open his trousers with his hands tied behind him? It wouldn’t do any good to yank on the waistband from behind, not with these; they were designed to withstand incredible force.
He would think about it later; it was not that big a problem. Yet. On the other hand, he would make do with that one half glass of water, and not waste energy trying to get another.
“You really should consider the legal aspect,” George said. His stomach growled; the food the two men were stuffing into their mouths with such indecent haste smelled delicious. He had been given no food, though it was promised for “just before you go swimming.” He had, instead, been given the novel experience of cleaning all the plumbing fixtures in the building with a toothbrush held in his teeth. He had not been willing, but the two men had not offered him any alternatives. His bruises throbbed, and his shoulders ached abominably from the strain of his bound arms.
“Like what?” asked the slender one. “You think this will come up in court or something?” He was the bully, George had discovered, when after some hours of jeering and shoving, they had finally helped him lower his trousers to use the toilet; the stocky one who looked meaner, with that scar across his chin, was only rough, not cruel. In the hours since, the slender man had taken every opportunity to cause pain in ways that would not show on an autopsy.
“Probably,” said George. It was most inconvenient, having one’s hands tied. He had not realized how dependent he was on gesture, a habit learned from his father. “My father gets most things to court, and he will certainly sue someone when I’m dead.” He was proud of himself; he said that without a quaver.
The men laughed, and looked at each other. “Poor Lord Thornbuckle,” the slender one said. “I’m sure he’ll be worried.”
George stared into space above them, the closest he could come to the pose he usually achieved at these moments. “Oh—I expect my father will represent him, too. A class action suit, I imagine. Damages, negligence—”
“Nonsense,” the slender man said, and took a bite of toast. Through it, he said, “And don’t think you can scare us with your father. I’ve known better lawyers than your father, in my life.”
George managed a casual chuckle. “I doubt that. You don’t even know who my father is.”
“He’s not in the same class with . . . oh . . . Kevil Starbridge Mahoney. Now is he?”
George laughed aloud, this time with genuine pleasure. “My dear lads, he is Kevil Starbridge Mahoney, and if you know him, you know how surely he will pursue anyone who harms his family. I’m George Starbridge Mahoney.”
A pause, during which the slender man chewed steadily, and the stocky one cast nervous glances from George to his companion. Finally the slender man swallowed, and pushed himself away from the table. George felt his heart begin to pound. “I don’t believe you,” the slender man said. “And I don’t like liars.” He spoke quietly, but with a studied viciousness that promised pain. George hoped his face didn’t show how frightened he was, a sudden burst of fear that made him glad he was in the chair, and not trying to stand up.
“Now wait,” the stocky man said. “We aren’t supposed to mark ’em up, remember?”
“I won’t.” The slender man smiled at George. “Now . . . what did you say your name was?”
“George Starbridge Mahoney,” George said. He was going to be hurt anyway, just as the bully at school had twisted ears or arms no matter what you said, but one might as well tell the truth. And if they concentrated on asking him about himself and his past, perhaps they wouldn’t ask where the others might be hiding on the island. He braced himself for whatever the slender man might do, but he did nothing. Then he slipped a hand into a pocket, and came out with a glove.
“You’re sure of that,” the man said, putting the glove on, and tapping its fingers on George’s head, just hard enough to sting and demonstrate that the fingers were tipped with something hard. “Then I suppose you know all about Viilgas versus Robertson Colony.”
“It’s against ethics to talk about cases outside professional venues,” George quoted. A gloved finger probed behind his ear, and he squirmed away. “But . . . sometimes at home, of course, it did happen.” The whole case was over, appeals and all, long ago; what harm could it do to admit that? And, now that he thought about it, there’d been a threat against the family; his father had insisted that none of them go out without an escort. “I remember the threat,” he said, as the finger jabbed behind his other ear. “But I was only eight.”
“Ah. Which would make you now . . . ?”
“Twenty-three.” Had it really been fifteen years? He would never forget the bomb in the vegetable shipment that had destroyed the old kitchen and scared the cook so that she went into early retirement. Of course she hadn’t been in danger; none of the servants were even in the house for the duration of the threat. His father had insisted on that.
“And was the threat ever carried out?” The finger prodded beneath his chin, only slightly painful so far.
“A bomb in the vegetables,” George said. “It blew all the tiles off the wall.” It occurred to him that this man might have been involved, for all that he didn’t look old enough. How old did you have to be to send bombs through the food system? Perhaps he’d started young. Perhaps he wanted revenge. . . .
“And what was the outcome—the real outcome?”
That, too, he would not forget, because he had been just old enough to recognize the discrepancy between the public news and what his father said to a colleague in the study. “How did you know about the real outcome?” he asked, and was rewarded by a sharp jab in the neck. It hurt more than he’d have expected.