“Okay then,” Mr. Blue-Tie said with obvious relish. “But, don’t say I didn’t warn you, shithead.”
Two of the Weir grabbed Alex and carried him forcibly into the bathroom, banging his head into what seemed like every available surface on the way. In the suffocating confines of the bag, Alex couldn’t anticipate the impacts, which made the whole experience that much worse. Eventually, they got him wrapped around one side of the bathtub, one Weir standing on either side of him, with their feet on the backs of his knees, his thighs pressed up against the cold of the tub wall.
“Now, to refresh your memory,” said Mr. Blue-Tie, his voice made resonant by the small bathroom’s acoustics. “The question of the moment is: where is that little bitch we saw you with, earlier? No need to answer right away, I’ll give you a minute to think about it.”
When Alex felt the hand on the back of his head, he stiffened his neck against the pressure, but it was hopeless. Whichever of the Weir crowded into the hotel bathroom it was that pushed him under, he had all the leverage he needed. The water was ice-cold, and the shock of hitting it almost made Alex gasp involuntarily as he his head went under. The fabric of the bag soaked through immediately, and the rough burlap clung to his face, increasing the feeling of suffocation. Alex could see nothing at all, even when he opened his eyes, and he could feel nothing except the water around his head, the unyielding force of the hand on the back of his head, and the dull sound of his own legs pounding desperately against the side of the bathtub. He wondered how long they would hold him under, and the question repeated itself in his mind, became obsessive, and made him acutely aware of the agonizing passage of time.
Inside the bag, under the water, Alex’s existence was defined by a consuming panic, an increasingly urgent need to breathe, and his eroding self-control. As Alex tried to count the seconds ticking by in his head, the dull pain in his chest grew sharper, more intense, his lungs seeming to contract, to collapse in on themselves. More than he could remember wanting anything, ever, more even then he wanted to breathe, Alex wanted the bag off of his head. Drowning didn’t seem as bad, without the stifling confines of the sack.
The seconds crept along imperceptibly, and Alex started to wonder if they were going to kill him, after all. His chest was on fire, and his throat had started to make convulsive motions. He held his mouth closed, unsure if he could stop himself from breathing in if it were open. It was impossible, he decided. Maybe Eerie had shown up at the door, maybe she’d stopped by reception or the ice machine or something, and now they had her, and they didn’t need Alex anymore, so he would die here, drowned in a stinking bag in some hotel bathroom.
Then they pulled his head back out of the water, and his chest convulsed, trying to force air through the water-logged fabric that had worked its way inside of his mouth and clung to his eyes and nostrils. The pain in his chest was soon matched by one radiating out from somewhere behind his eyes, and through the bag, the lights of the bathroom were dim and strange. He spat and coughed and squirmed helplessly on the hotel tile, frantic to pull the wet, suffocating fabric from his face.
“We aren’t too good at counting, Alex,” said the snarling voice of Mr. Blue-Tie, his breath tickling Alex’s ear like that of a lover. He could barely hear him over the sound of his own labored gasping. “We almost lost you there. You feel like telling us anything, yet, or do you want to try testing our math again?”
Alex wondered, even as he twitched against the bathroom floor like a fish out of water, his chest so tight that he couldn’t seem to breathe any better now than when he had been underwater, how it was that Mr. Blue-Tie knew his name. He finally drew in a long, shuddering breath, gagging as the bag worked its way still more deeply into his mouth.
“Nothing, huh? Well, that’s great, as far as I’m concerned. You see,” Mr. Blue-Tie confided, pulling Alex up by his shoulders, and leaning him against the side of the bath tub, “we don’t actually need you to tell us anything. We’ve got this area locked down, and your girlfriend isn’t going anywhere, not without running into us. And when we do,” he hissed, grinding his crotch against Alex obscenely, “well, maybe we’ll start with you, so you don’t have wonder what we are going to do to her.”
Alex felt the stiffness pressing against him and felt a horrible sickness, a level of panic and dread that had somehow opened beneath him, impossibly worse than the prospect of being drowned in an anonymous hotel bathtub. He wanted to say something, anything; Alex knew in his heart that, if he had someone to sell out, he very well might have, that he wouldn’t have been able to help himself, and it hurt him to know that. But he had nothing to say, and no breathe to say it with.
Abruptly, his head was underwater again, and it happened so fast that he was still gasping when he hit, water flooding his mouth and nose, burning his sinuses. Without thinking, he panicked and blew out the little air in his lungs. The heavy fabric and the cold water beyond it pressed in on him again. Then, with an almost surreal horror, he felt fingers hooking inside his belt, tearing his pants down and away from his waist. He tried to buck, to shake the Weir from his back, but the feet on his knees and the hand on the back of his head remained intractable.
Alex decided to breathe in. He decided that, if this was one of those things that someone could live through, that he didn’t want to. He gave up, relaxing his chest and throat and opening his mouth. For a moment, he felt no fear at all, just disgust, regret and profound disappointment.
With a quickly dawning horror, Alex realized that he could not make himself breathe in, his body would not obey him, he could not fill his lungs with water. Despite the horror and shame, despite the pain in his chest that defied description, Alex could not make himself drown. He struggled against the hand on his neck, and then finding his legs suddenly free, he kicked out frantically at the Weir behind him, struggling like an animal in a trap. He knew with a clarity that surprised him that he was dying. Alex decided to die fighting.
Slowly, he realized that the person behind him was altogether too small to be Mr. Blue-Tie, or any of the other men he’d seen in the hotel room. Then Alex noticed that the other Weir who’d been holding him down on other side seemed to have disappeared. And, finally, that the hand on his neck was attempting to pull him up and out of the water, not pushing him into it, something made more difficult by his struggling and kicking.
Alex tried to cooperate with the effort, then, and found that he could do little to influence affairs. The whole thing seemed rather impersonal, as if he were observing the struggle.
Then he was out into the light and the air again, and that was ridiculously good, even if his chest rattled and wheezed as he gasped, even if the air burned his mouth and throat. A moment later, the bag came off his head, and that was even better. Lying on the floor, with the bathroom tile cool against the side of his face was like heaven.
Alex looked up at Eerie, her face streaked with tears and her mouth moving, and smiled adoringly at her, like she was an angel.
Then his expression froze, and his face twisted as he struggled for breath, clutching at his throat and writhing. The air was wrong, somehow, unless it was a trick of his vision — it was dense and faintly discolored, and it burned his eyes and mouth, and the inside of his nose. It was even worse in his lungs, and he found that he could not hold the air in. Every breath he took was expelled instantly with a series of choking coughs.
It took a little while for Eerie to pin his head down, her knees on his shoulders, and longer to force his mouth open and wedge something inside it. It was sweet, too sweet, sickeningly so, and Alex thought at first that he might be ill, the candy floating syrupy and huge in the dry confines of his mouth. And then, slowly, he felt his chest and throat relax, and the burning in his sinuses died down.