Under the Thumb

Even when they took his thumb off with the bolt cutters he didn’t even flinch. Some of the men were inwardly proud of his resolve, others horrified by it. Outwardly, they all retained their aggressive stance and implacable face. Only when they began on his left hand did his eyes dart back and forth, his poker face not as professional under pressure as he may have wanted. It was too late. Only Billy had noticed the slight change.

He ordered them to stop. His right hand was mutilated beyond repair, but he had his left. Billy placed a piece of paper in front of him, the rustling as it came to rest on his knee the only sound in the room; it was almost as if everyone were holding their breath until he had written something.

Instead of a pen, Billy picked up one of his digits and passed it to him to write with. He gave Billy a look of contempt, yet also compliance, but Billy ignored it. He continued to hold the digit until he was forced to take it. Billy’s nod ensured his mob quickly took up their jobs from the point where they had abandoned them earlier.

Again, the darting of the eyes. Billy smiled, held out the finger again.

He snatched it, bringing a stinging slap to the face. No one had yet spoken, but a murmur trickled around the room. Billy spun around, glaring. No one met his eye.

Then, the ping of the light bulb as the filament blew. Fuck; the curse coming from many mouths. Stumbling, more cursing. Then, a flick of his wrist and Billy had his lighter open and lit, casting a sphere of gold within a metre of his body.

He checked to make sure he was still seated. He was. Good boy.

One of the men left the room, having located a torch. He was off to see about finding the power, try to pinpoint the problem and get the lights back on. Billy wanted it done yesterday; asap; pronto. He always wanted it like that.

Billy looked down at the broken man in front of him. His blue shirt had turned red and purple as his blood had begun to soak in and dry. His trousers were sodden. Billy had seen many men break down in this chair, to find that their bowels and bladders loosened once the pain got too much. That smell. It brought back memories. Not this time, though. This time he couldn’t smell the fear. Not bad for a detective. They were usually the ones that squealed the most when they brought out the bolt cutters.

The lights came back on suddenly. A lacklustre cheer went up, silenced by a further glare from Billy. He motioned for his prisoner to carry on. The man seemed to smile up at his interrogator as he bent forward over the paper. Billy was unable to see what was being written on the paper.

A commotion was happening outside the room. Billy signalled for one of his henchmen to attend to it. They could do without any disturbance now that they were so close to finding out the piece of information they needed. The kind detective was going to give it to them.

The door to the room burst open and Billy instinctively pulled out his gun and pointed in the direction of the sound. Only his henchmen stood before him, there seemed to be no threat. Billy shrugged.

"There’s a fucking bomb in the cellar, boss. It goes off in less than a minute!" There was panic in his voice. Without waiting for his signal, people were trying to leave the building as soon as possible, trampling each other, kicking and punching.

Billy bent forward and snatched the paper from the hand of the policeman. This time he was greeted by a grin. Billy looked at the childish scrawl on the paper. One word written in blood.

Boom.