Part One
Eamon eventually got off to sleep with visions of Nick running through his mind. He must have been asleep for at least a couple of hours and he hadn’t noticed that the cell light had been switched on, albeit dimmed.
The noise of the electronic bolts on the door and the sliding of them made him open his eyes. Initially, he thought it part of his dream and when the guard came into his cell, a guard he had not seen before, he was still in a dream state and muttered, “Who ... what is it?”
He was soon fully awake as the man crossed the cell quickly and firmly pressed the large piece of plastic tape across Eamon’s mouth and pinned him to the bed with his knees as his hands attached themselves to Eamon’s neck.
This guard was much larger and stronger than any of the others and looked Arabic. He pulled a flick-knife from his pocket and pressed this hard against Eamon’s neck but did not cut the skin.
“Not a word from you or a struggle or this will cut you up for good,” he said.
Eamon could say nothing. He was afraid and still rather dazed as the beads of sweat collected on his forehead. There was no way to struggle.
A second guard came into the room and closed the door almost completely behind him. He was much shorter than the first and spoke with what Eamon recognised as a Belgian accent. Eamon recognised him as the supervisor of the kitchen workers he had seen earlier in the day.
“The timer is on the outer door. We only have five minutes before the guards are alerted,” he said to the first heavier guard.
“Shit,” he said, “I thought you knew how to operate it.”
“They constantly change the security arrangements,” he replied.
“Then let’s get this over with,” the first guard said and pulled Eamon from the bed, pinning him up against the wall.
The second guard walked over to them and stared at Eamon.
“Say your prayers, faggot,” he said as he spat into his face and began to rip Eamon’s shirt off. The buttons popped off like peas from a pod and he threw the remnants of the material onto the bed.
“Grab his left arm,” the second guard said.
“Why the hell do we need to go to all this trouble?” the first asked.
“Don’t ask stupid questions. You know it’s not up to us. We do as we are told.”
The first guard pushed his arm tightly into Eamon’s neck and pinned him harder to the wall. He brought his other hand down and Eamon presumed they were about to stab him in the stomach. He tried to scream but no words came out.
Before Eamon realised what was happening, the guard with the knife slit his right arm just below the elbow to the wrist. Eamon felt the pain immediately as the blood began to pour out but he could not scream.
He was then twisted around violently and the guard pinned his chest and face against the wall. Eamon’s cheek caught a small hook that was on the wall and it ripped his skin. The other guard took hold of the now bloodied arm and dragged Eamon’s fingers over the white-washed wall, writing the message they were instructed to leave.
Eamon did not understand, nor could he see what was happening. All he felt was the pain of the arm and cheek wounds. He was nearly unconscious.
The message on the wall, though smeared, was easy enough to read when they stood back.
“FORGIVE ME”.
The guards then dragged him back to the bed and one of them tore the remnants of the shirt on the bed into strips and tied these together to make a long thin piece of the material. One of them then jumped onto bed and tied one end onto the strong mesh covering of the centre light fitting.
“Get him up here,” he said as the other guard pulled Eamon onto the bed.
“Pull him upright,” he demanded as he shaped the other end of the material into a noose for Eamon’s neck.
Eamon had not yet passed out and realised what was happening. He began to struggle and the guard gave him a heavy blow with his fist to the side of his face.
He was out cold.
The noose was already around Eamon’s neck when the shot from Sablon’s pistol was fired and the second guard fell backwards against the wall and slid down the side of the bed. The first guard, still holding Eamon’s limp body, pushed his flick-knife up to Eamon’s throat. He thought better of this as Sablon, Jean-Pierre and now three guards entered the cell.
It was pointless.
He dropped Eamon’s body onto the bed and handed them the knife.
The mess on the cell wall and Eamon’s bloodied body looked a great deal worse than it really was.
Jean-Pierre thought that Eamon was already dead until the doctor confirmed that he was alive but losing too much blood.
But he would survive.
Jean-Pierre decided to stay with Eamon in the prison hospital.
“Welcome back,” he said as Eamon slowly opened his eyes. “No, don’t try and say a word,” he added and then explained the events of the evening.
On their way to the detention centre, Sablon had explained to Jean-Pierre that Bisson was in London and was clearing up and piecing together the loose ends. They had also been aware that some of the guards were probably on the payroll of the cocaine chain and allowed Eamon to be set up to capture them. Their information as to the likely suspects was wrong as the guards who attempted to murder Eamon were not the ones they had in mind. The British connection, Bulmer, was not known until Eamon had unwittingly agreed to smuggle the dope through customs. He was obviously a vital link but after investigation with Scotland Yard, they realised he was only a small-time crook with ambitious ideas and not the powerful person he thought he was.
Eamon was in pain and found it difficult to take it all in but he was now fully alert.
“But what about Sally and Nick?” he asked.
“Sally is safe,” Jean-Pierre replied, “and Nick, I believe, is being picked up by Bisson as we speak and will be in their custody.”
Eamon was relieved. At last the ordeal was nearly over.
He sighed.
“So what happens now?”
Jean-Pierre smiled. “Well, my friend, the police have all they need on tape and you still have to appear in court. However, Bisson and Sablon will be taking care of most things. It’s now just the formalities. You will have to appear in court and give evidence. Fabrier is a powerful man and the case will make the news. You’ll be a celebrity and need protection. But not right now, so just rest.”
Jean-Pierre stood up.
“The doctor says that you have to stay here maybe a few days; the wound on your arm is very deep and you lost a great deal of blood. There is a very deep wound on your cheek and that may leave a scar, a little reminder you will always have. However, when you feel better, I’ll be taking you out of here until the trial comes up.”
“You, how do you mean?”
“You are coming out on bail into my custody. Unless of course, you want to stay here?”
Eamon smiled.
“Just try and stop me.”