Taking Pity by David Mark Read Free Book Online Page A

another wee chat.”
    The man is still dressed in the designer clothes he was wearing when Mahon took him. His black suit and purple shirt are streaked with blood and piss, but Mahon has allowed him to keep his dignity and chosen not to strip him. He’s searched him, of course. Taken the man’s two mobile phones and the expensive leather wallet. Took his switchblade, too. Used it to pin the man’s hands to the hardwood floor of the cottage to keep him still while Mahon set about levering up floorboards and gathering stones.
    He has used this technique before. It’s messy but effective.
    “Pressing, it’s called,” says Mahon conversationally, pulling a sleek black mobile phone from his pocket. “I’m sure you know that, of course. You look like a clever man. Not as clever as you think you are, otherwise you wouldn’t be here, but you’ve obviously got a bit of something about you. Guile, I think it’s called. Ambition, maybe. Some people might say you were bloody stupid to think of going behind Mr. Nock’s back. I’m not so sure. I understand the temptation. He’s old. Had things his own way a long time. Outstayed his welcome at the party. The thing is, though, bonny lad, it’s his party. He can stay as long as he wants. And he’s got one or two bouncers who don’t like gate-crashers. You understand? Now I’ll ask you again. The passcode for this phone. What is it?”
    On the floor, the man gives a cough and spits out blood and swearwords.
    Mahon shakes his head. He reaches down and picks up a big white rock from the pile beside the fire. Lightly, he tosses it onto the floorboards that are laid horizontally across the man’s chest. It lands among the bricks and boulders already crushing the man down onto the sharp stone Mahon has wedged between the vertebrae at the small of his back.
    The scream is lost in the rain and the wind.
    “You’re being awfully silly,” says Mahon, whose voice wavers with the slightest sibilant hiss around the letters that require his tongue. “Tell me who you report back to and I won’t even bother with the phone. I know who you represent, of course. Your people have got a lot of folk running scared. But I would love to put a face to a name. Now tell me who asked you to come and rock the boat. Who told you to approach our man Lloyd? Who decided that would be a good idea?”
    Through snot and tears, the man manages more venom, shaking his head from side to side and opening fresh wounds on his chin as he rubs his flesh against the splintered wood that pins him down.
    “The French have a name for this,” says Mahon, sitting back and holding a fresh rock in his lap. “
Peine forte et dure
. I’m no linguist but I think that’s right. Only been to France once and never got a chance to use the expression. Hope I’ve got it right. Protestant bastards used it on Catholics who refused to recant. Was a famous case in York. Beautiful city, York. You ever been? No? Was a lady there called Margaret Clitherow. Upright, well liked, normal sort of woman. Authorities arrested her for her beliefs. Ordered she be pressed to death. Laid her on a stone the size of a man’s fist then placed a door on her chest. The town sheriffs were supposed to load the door with rocks but couldn’t bring themselves to do it. Couldn’t persuade any townsfolk either. Ended up paying some beggars. What that woman must have endured, eh? But she wouldn’t recant. Stuck to her beliefs. Some people even say that her final words were ‘More weight.’ I admire her for that. She cared about something so much she was willing to endure whatever it took. I think she’s been sainted since. The thing is, son, you’re not protecting a faith. You’re not standing up for what you believe in. You’re just being a silly, obstinate bastard. You might get your orders through a mobile phone. You might not know who the next man up the chain is. But you know the passcode for your phone. And if you don’t tell me,