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1 ANCHORPOINT
TRICKS
OF THE TRADE
Fiction by
JIM STEWART
TOPICS:
Physical testing, endurance, resistance to interrogation & torture (so
what else is new!).
This story is about two characters McKILLOCK and WALSH.
They were trained by the British army into the ways of fight tactics, survival
in a hostile world, and killing when necessary - but their training took place
twenty years apart.
McKILLOCK, after leaving
the Black Watch made it a rule never to be addressed as anything but McKillock.
If this dour, hard-nosed Scot had a fore-name, nobody knew it in Glen Aflen
where for the past ten years he has been head keeper and estate manager.
A law unto himself on this strictly private Highland estate, nobody messed
with McKillock. Very soon after his arrival, word got out not to get caught
poaching, because the new 'Factor' knew all the tricks, both legal and illegal.
McKillock's techniques for dealing with anybody he caught left no marks, except
on the nervous system and ego of the person or persons unlucky enough to be
on the receiving end. Not that anybody ever admitted having been caught and
'dealt with' by this experienced hard-man. Certainly, very few risked getting
caught a second time.
The group of international businessmen who own the well-guarded estate, also
value their privacy - and McKillock has always been very much their man.
Being essentially an outdoorsman, he seldom went near the Big House. But the
indoor staff knew that it was Mr McKillock the owners had a quiet word with
if any sort of trouble might need sorting out. It was rumoured that immediately
after his army career, McKillock handled personal protection for some of the
most powerful businessmen in the world. It was also common knowledge that
in the Black Watch, McKillock was known as 'Killer'.
On reaching the age of forty, he had first chosen to withdraw to a solitary
life around the Highland hills and woodlands. Now, ten years later, things
were about to change. No way did he need an ASSISTANT, but the owners of Glen
Aflen had decided otherwise. And from experience, McKillock knew these high-powered
international operators well enough to know that they were not men to be argued
with.
But when it came to selecting an assistant, McKillock was adamant. If he was
going to get saddled with somebody intruding into his day-to-day life, it
certainly wasn't going to be 'a bloody local yokel!' as he put it.
WAL WALSH was from the
Fife cost of Scotland, so virtually a foreigner as far as the Highlander McKillock
was concerned. This newly discharged army hard-nut had been having difficulty
adjusting to civilian life. His army discharge papers hinted that ex-lance-corporal
Walter Walsh was a loose cannon, who frequently invited trouble.
When interviewed for the job in such a remote location, Walsh made no attempt
to hide the fact that he only applied to escape from some recent unsatisfactory
urban experiences. The reluctant McKillock surprised his bosses by deciding
this young misfit was the only applicant he was prepared to consider. So the
somewhat edgy Walsh had been given a month's trial. Was this because he reminded
McKillock of himself twenty or more years earlier?
The bosses knew the situation might lead to conflict, but they needed somebody
to learn from McKillock. Not just the various skills he brought to managing
tight security on the estate; they were on the lookout for a younger man able
to provide personal protection services on a wider scale should the need arise;
skills which had been meat and drink to the more experienced man all his life.
McKillock instinctively knew that having this young tiger under his feet could
lead to conflict. But the dour Highlander had never been able to resist the
possibility of a spot of trouble - and could never resist a challenge.
*****
Two weeks into the trial,
no concessions had been made to the new assistant. McKillock's plan from the
start had been to keep the young bugger working. Find out what he's made of;
whether he's worth spending any time on.
So far he'd not complained. Early morning starts and a late patrol of the
river on a wet all-nighter had all gone off without incident. The lad had
had no problem shinning up a big old tree to lop off a dodgy branch and lower
it safely. He'd put his back into digging out the cesspit behind the old brew-house.
This had been converted for him to live in. McKillock had his own place well
away from both the main house and the brew-house; he needed his private space.
Then Walsh had not been squeamish about handling a very angry badger in a
snare, or wringing the neck of a stoat before skinning it on the spot to nail
the carcass to a stump; an old trick to discourage burrowing.
On this particular morning, a challenging climb up the steep slopes of Ben
Aflen had given the lad no problem. He'd accepted a load of tools including
a 20 pound club hammer and set of stone chisels in his backpack without complaint.
Then McKillock had deliberately pushed the pace as they'd climbed the difficult
track. The mission was to sort out a broken stone wall. This had involved
first lugging fallen stones clear and then stacking them in preparation for
a re-build. The younger man had worked with some relish, even expressing interested
in the way dry stone walling worked. At least he had a practical mind.
The weather on the east face of Ben Aflen is unpredictable to say the least,
and a sudden change for the worse had taken McKillock by surprise. When the
rain came on, Walsh showed no sign of wanting to stop work. The gear he chose
to work in had probably been nicked from the army, and was rain proof. But
McKillock was less well prepared. His battered Barbour motorcycle jacket was
well waxed and comfortable - but his rain-proof over-trousers were in the
land rover a good hike away.
Darker clouds moved in fast and when the heavens opened, getting back down
the glen was not a option. McKillock knew there was an old stone shack just
over the rise and the two men made a dash for it, McKillock setting the pace.
But the final sprint turned into a race because the younger man galloped ahead
once the shack was in sight.
By the time McKillock caught him up, the downpour was showing no signs of
letting up. Luckily the old building still had a roof. As the rain hammered
down on the slates, the two men knew they were going nowhere for a while.
*****
As McKillock settled down
on the ground with his back against the rough wall, he opened his beat-up
old jacket and comfortably crossed his heavy industrial wellies in front of
him.
Walsh, exhilarated by the dash, was immediately restless. Inactivity got to
him. Still well bundled up in his ex-army weather gear, he began to explore
the old space. A single room with an earthen floor, it was empty of furniture
but had obviously been a dwelling. There was an old fireplace and Walsh considered
lighting a fire but there was no dry wood. There were beams, high beams with
hooks in them. As the rain drummed down, he reached up and tentatively began
to do pull-ups on a beam, challenging his muscles.
McKillock watched the younger man testing himself for a while before warning
that he'd work up a sweat inside his waterproof gear.
Walsh shrugged and continued to exercise his muscles, lifting his heavy combat
boots high under him to increase the stress while putting more effort into
the pull-ups.
"I've spent days," he rasped out between hoisting himself up and
then down again, "sweating my bollocks off in this one-piece - doesn't
let water in - but doesn't let sweat out. Crawling through mud in it - being
deliberately made to lie in water on long recon exercises. They - train you
not - to be distracted by - discomfort - physical stress. It's all in the
training."
He forced out each word as he continued to raise and lower his bodyweight.
"You miss the training," observed the older man.
"Challenge is what I miss. Get it right or do it again. Do it or else."
"Or else what?"
"Get punished. Get it right or be forced to do something you really did
not want to be doing. Come out on top or suffer the consequences".
"Suffer?" mused the older man. "Suffer how?"
"Five mile punishment runs in full kit," said Walsh, arresting the
activity but still hanging from the beam with both feet off the floor. "Sweltering
in one of these suits, a forced pace run with extra weight in a backpack."
Determinedly he now raised both feet forward until they were level with his
waist, deliberately testing his thigh and stomach muscles.
"How often did you have to do that - five miles as extra punishment?"
"Er, often, until they realised that I got a kick out of it."
The ex-squaddie grinned and then, clenching his teeth against the strain,
began to haul himself up and down again, legs still braced firmly forward,
parallel with the ground.
"So, did they invent some punishment you really didn't like?" asked
McKillock
Arresting his efforts mid-pull, Walsh smiled; "They tried - until they
realised I was really challenging them. But nowadays there's a lot of stuff
they're not allowed to do in the army."
He flashed another self-satisfied smile before getting back to his self-testing;
counting his way through a series of increasingly difficult pull-ups; "Five
- four -- three --- two-oo ---- ONE!! ---- and one more just for the hell
of it!" Straining every muscle, he completed the extra lift before allowing
himself to stop. Then, lowering his feet, he let go of the beam. His face
was running with sweat.
"Take a break, laddie," said McKillock, "we'll have work to
do later."
Walsh sprawled down to sit against the opposite wall. His bulky cammo one-piece
suit had a leather belt added to stop the waist bellying out when he was working.
With a grin he wrenched it a couple of notches tighter.
Then he breathed deeply before spreading his boots wide apart and bending
his upper body forward slowly. He forced himself down until his face almost
touched the dirt floor. Then, with renewed effort, he put his hands behind
his back and strained his body further down until his face actually touched
the floor.
McKillock watched as the younger man deliberately wiped his face in the soil,
from side to side until both sweating cheeks and his forehead were caked with
earth. He then sat back and grinned.
"Pig in shit - happy as - in army parlance. When you were in the Black
Watch, Mac, did you ... ?"
"McKillock!" interjected the other sharply. "Mister McKillock
to you". Then he relented, "But McKillock will do."
"When you were in the Black Watch, I guess the training was harsher,
right?"
McKillock remained silent, so the other man continued. "A couple of the
older instructors were always telling us we had it easy compared with when
they were trained. No Human Rights nonsense back then, no Political Correctness
and no females training alongside the men to put the breaks on. Am I right?"
Silence, so he continued; "We heard tales of no-holds-barred hand-to-hand
stuff and off the record punishments. Traditional methods for getting naughty
boys to toe the line. Punishments handed out on a strictly don't-ask-don't
tell basis as far as officers were concerned. And resistance to interrogation
and torture exercises really went for the full effect, then. Yes?"
McKillock remembered. With no sense of either pride or approval he admitted
with an abrupt "Yes."
"Those were the days, what!" invited the smiling, muddy-faced younger
man.
After consideration McKillock conceded, "They had their little tricks,
the instructors. Methods that were, shall we say, effective."
He fell silent, signalling an end to the conversation. His jeans were damp
and, shifting his weight, he bent his legs until the cleated soles of his
heavy-duty wellies were flat on the ground. He rubbed his thighs to warm them
up.
But Walsh's mind continued to explore an issue which had always excited his
curiosity. Eventually he decided to push for more information.
"Some of the stories from the older blokes certainly got us speculating.
Extreme stress positions. Hold 'em or get a rifle-butt rammed into your thigh.
Stress positions that are no longer allowed. Health and safety regulations.
Fucking joke! What's the use of training people to resist interrogation if
the interrogators aren't allowed to do what happens in the real world?"
McKillock remained silent, because he knew from experience that no amount
of training can prepare you for the real thing. Even prior experience of intense
pain can not help when the pain goes beyond a certain point. Men will crack.
The mucky-faced younger man sat there grinning, full of enthusiasm and confidence.
Was he inviting him to wipe the smile off his grinning face, McKillock speculated?
The rain continued to drum down on the old slate roof.
After a short silence Walsh tried to raise the subject again. "Were you
an instructor, Mr McKillock?"
"No," was the abrupt reply, and it was a lie.
There was another silence, before; "But you did the simulated capture
and resistance to interrogation course, old style?"
McKillock did not reply immediately. He then nodded gravely, his mind deep
in the past.
The younger man, in spite of the initial antipathy he'd felt towards this
still tough-as-old-boots veteran, needed to know more. He studied him for
a while before risking, "Did you get through it without them breaking
you down?"
McKillock chose his words carefully; "It's not a game we're talking about,
win or lose. More a case of staying alive. Staying sane was what they aimed
to teach. Any man can be broken, I'm sure they taught you that. Holding back
essential information is the most you can hope for. Hold out long enough to
make anything you know valueless to an enemy."
He thought more on the topic before continuing. "Any man can be broken
- one way or another - and sometimes it's not possible to put him back together.
I've seen it happen. Reducing a man to pulp either physically or psychologically,
is a squalid business. Not a game."
Unaware of the tension, the younger man insisted; "But, some of the techniques
they used, Little tricks. They really fascinate me."
The rain beat down as the dour fifty-year-old chose his response and said
with a rueful smile; "Then you're one sick puppy."
"Bet your ass! Masochist is my middle name," he shot back with a
grin.
McKillock thought about this.
"Then why don't you walk down to the bottom of the glen where we left
the Land Rover and get me my over-trousers. These jeans are damp already and
this rain isn't going to let up. It'll only take you about half an hour there
and back," adding after a pause, "Less if you run." With that
he pointedly took a time-check on his wrist-watch.
"Fuck off!" was Walsh's reply and that was the end of the conversation.
*****
As the wind lashed rain
against the building, the silence deepened. Walsh, restless for something
to do, decided to adjust the lacing of his tall combat boots. Hauling one
ankle onto his opposite knee, despite the bulk of his waterproofs (which he
was wearing over thick trousers and a sweater), he un-snapped and peeled back
the end of his over-trouser leg to get at his boot, and set about pulling
the lacing tighter.
With two pairs of thick socks inside, the boot leg could be made more snug.
Walsh tugged at the long lace, easing slack up from the bottom eyelets, tightening
it methodically until there was considerable extra lace at the top. This he
dragged even tighter before knotting it expertly around his calf and tucking
away the long ends.
Having completed the first boot and re-snapped the leg of the over trousers,
in the continuing silence (except for the hammering of the rain), Walsh hauled
up the second boot. His broad leather waist belt made this something of a
struggle, but he breathed in to reach for the end of his cammo over-trousers.
The well-tied knot high on the boot at first gave him some difficulty, but
eventually it came loose. Then, as he began to repeat the lace tightening
process, a particularly determined tug caused it to break.
"Fuck!" said Walsh and McKillock suppressed a smile. This the other
acknowledged before producing from one of his copious pockets a pair of brand
new laces.
"Part of my training that did stick. Always be prepared," he smirked
as he began to rip out the broken lace from the long boot. He then dragged
the boot off so he could thread one of the new laces from the bottom eyelets.
As he worked on it with his hand inside the boot, he made a discovery; "I
thought I felt something in there!" he exclaimed good naturedly and produced
a small pebble.
"Are you sure you didn't put it in there deliberately, you being a masochist?"
said McKillock, grinning. After a pause he continued, "An old army trick
in my day was to drop a couple of small stones into a man's boots if they
were left by his bed. Then in the morning, rushing to get his kit on, he was
out on the Parade Ground and it was too late to do anything about it."
Walsh, while continuing to re-thread the boot, considered this idea for a
moment and then picked up the small stone and, looking at McKillock, dropped
it back into the boot.
McKillock accepted the gesture and shrugged; "Whatever turns you on."
After another pause he asked; "Have you ever worn your boots on the wrong
feet?"
The younger man stopped threading the lace to look at McKillock. "No.
Why?"
"Oh," he recalled pensively, "if two or three hairy-assed Drill
Instructors took you aside in a small room and instructed you to put your
left boot on your right foot and your right boot on your left foot, you did
not ask 'Why'. And then they'd have you stamping around the parade ground
until they'd allow you to take them off. Did you never come across that as
an unofficial punishment in your mob?"
Walsh looked down at the boot in his hand and set it down. After a little
more thought he began to unlace his other boot.
McKillock watched in silence until both boots were off.
"I wouldn't advise it," he warned.
Walsh thought about it as another torrent of rain blasted the building; "We're
not going anywhere for the next half hour," he said and began to push
his left foot into the right boot.
"Er - I don't think they'd have let you get away with two pairs of socks,"
suggested the more experienced gamesman.
Walsh shrugged, pulled his foot out and stripped off one sock from each foot.
"But you could lose the pebble. Wouldn't like to make it too much of
a challenge," said the game-keeper with a smirk.
Accepting this provocation, Walsh again pushed one foot into the 'wrong' boot
experimentally. After feeling around with his toes, he plunged the other foot
into the other boot and stood up gingerly. He grimaced. "Fucking hell,"
he said and sat down again.
The older man smiled. "Just one of many unofficial tricks of the trainers
nobody talked about but everybody knew about. Can really punish your feet,
and … " He stopped mid-sentence because the idiot opposite him had
begun to tighten the laces of a boot. He continued to lace it tightly all
the way to the top and knot it off before starting on the second boot.
"Half an hour I said so half an hour it is," said Walsh as he knotted-off
the second lace.
He then gathered up the remains of the old lace. It had broken close to one
end, so there was a considerable length of good lace. Picking up the second
lace of the new pair, he stood up. Taking an experimental few steps, ex-lance
corporal Walsh suddenly marched smartly for several paces before coming to
a stamping halt, followed by a drill-perfect left-turn followed by an about
turn, all complete with required stamping.
"So you're a masochist," smiled McKillock. "Point made. Half
an hour standing, sitting, marching - or fetching my over-trousers?"
Walsh wasn't too sure. The discomfort of the boots was occupying his mind.
"Tell me about some of the other tricks and punishments."
McKillock looked unwilling, so Walsh continued; "Go on, to take my mind
off these," he said walking the length of the floor and turning. "In
the guard room, we heard about deliberately uncomfortable ways of putting
on these new rigid-centred handcuffs. What sort of equipment did they have
in your day?"
#TRICKSthumbtie
"Oh," remembered
the older man, "they didn't need equipment. A couple of rifle-slings,
a webbing belt or two." He then remembered; "A couple of rain ponchos
could be used to make a man seriously uncomfortable for a couple of quiet
hours in detention at night. Always punishment that left no marks. Same in
the gym, a strictly unofficial after hours training session with some athletic
tape to make sure you didn't let go of the weights bar. Or a string around
your bollocks so you couldn't lower the weights without ripping them off."
"Fuck!" breathed the ex-squaddie as McKillock warmed to the subject.
"The type of man who joined the Royal Military Police or became a PT
instructor always had certain character traits. On night watch at a guard
post or out-of-hours at the gym some of those kink-heads would mess around
together, perfecting techniques - even trying them out on one another just
for the hell of it. Then get their rocks off subjecting some poor sod to all
sorts of quirky little tricks."
Walsh's eyes glowed. "Such as?" he asked, returning to stand in
front of McKillock who was still sitting on the floor.
Experiences from the past seemed to be reawakening. The out-doorsman, the
ex-hard-nut, the game-keeper who had missed playing challenging games reached
a decision. He spread his industrial wellies wide and flexed his still-brawny
shoulders inside his waxed jacket to give him freedom of movement. Reaching
forward, he took the laces which Walsh still held in his hands. "Kneel
down," he said.
Ready for instruction, Walsh knelt between the seated man's rubber boots.
With a neat twist of his wrist McKillock turned the centre of the long new
bootlace into a pair of running loops.
"Give me your thumbs," he said and ex-lance corporal Walsh willingly
presented them. Slipping the two loops over the thumbs, the lace drew tight.
A deft second knot immediately prevented the loops loosening again.
Walsh studied the knot and tried to release his thumbs. The lace held firm.
"Neat!" he breathed admiringly.
"No need for a lot of equipment in the right situation."
A more determined attempt to free his captive thumbs failed. "That simple.
Bloody brilliant," Walsh beamed. "Show me how … "
"Try putting your hands behind your neck," cut in McKillock.
"Why?" said Walsh, but he immediately lifted his arms in the bulky
rain suit which pulled and stretched in all directions. With difficulty settled
the tied thumbs behind his neck.
"Why?" repeated McKillock. "Why? Because I told you to and
you're already in no position to argue."
With that, the seated man reached forward and took hold of the two long ends
of the lace, separating them on either side of Walsh's neck. A double knot
had been tied in front of his throat before Walsh realised what was happening.
The ex-squaddie tried to free his hands but he was inescapably trapped, arms
bent around either side of his head.
As McKillock got to his feet he warned; "You won't strangle yourself
unless you struggle." Then, walking behind the kneeling man, he stooped
and tied what remained of the broken lace around his leather booted ankles.
"What the … " began Walsh and he tried to stand up. The lace
held the heavy boots firmly together.
Satisfied, McKillock stood back and allowed the struggling man to explore
every possibility. The tied thumbs were going nowhere; he was unable to get
up off his knees however hard he tried. At last he gave up.
"Fuck me!" Walsh exclaimed.
A hand suddenly clamped onto his cammo shoulder and a voice close behind his
ear whispered menacingly, "If I wanted to I could! See, a couple of lengths
of bootlace and I'm in a position to do anything I want to you. Anything."
Walking around his captive, ex-sergeant instructor McKillock moved dangerously
close in front of the keeling man. Opening his waxed motorcycle jacket the
waist belt and front of his jeans moved close to Walsh's muddy face. Then
his two brawny arms reached under the kneeling man's bent arms and lifted
him to his feet.
Walsh stood unsteadily, his head flanked by his bent arms, as he tested the
limited movement between his boots. If he tried to kick out, would the lace
break or would he fall heavily? The shift of weight reminded him of the discomfort
of the wrong-footed boots.
McKillock's weather-beaten face smiled into that of his captive while reaching
into his own jacket. From a well-worn waxy patch pocket he produced a short
length of light cord.
"You're not the only one who was trained to always be prepared."
Fingering the thin but strong cord, the game-keeper speculated; "I could
tie your elbows together ... "
To demonstrate, he forced his prisoner's tightly bent elbows together until
they almost touched in front of his face. "Or I could use this to gag
you."
Suddenly, the cord was across Walsh's mouth and had been crossed behind his
head and was being pulled tight. It bit uncomfortably between his lips, deep
into his mouth. He tried to back away but the older man had complete control
of the lace, and his tied boots prevented any resistance. But the cord was
suddenly released and McKillock stood back smiling.
Walsh was off-balance both physically and mentally. He was breathing heavily
and a mixture of resentment and relief flashed across his muddy face. The
man who he'd previously regarded as something of a has-been stood before him
with an amused smile on his rugged face. Reassured, Walsh forced a smile in
return.
"Of course," said the totally in control McKillock, "I could
use this wee piece of string to tie your wrists to that beam and force you
to stand there for well past the half hour so that you'd really know how devilish
a punishment wearing boots on the wrong feet can be. What do you say to that,
ex-lance corporal Walsh? Walsh, W. What does the W stand for? William? Walter?
Wally?" he asked provocatively but without inviting any reply.
Then, taking his time, he moved behind his captive so that he could lift the
tied thumbs, forcing them high enough for the lace around his throat to add
a dangerous new dimension to the situation.
Then before Walsh had time to react, his wrists were relaxed and game-keeper,
game-player McKillock had reappeared in front of him. Still smiling amiably,
the older man flexed the cord he still held between his hands. "Or, of
course, I could tie this around your bollocks. There's nothing you could do
to stop me. Then perhaps walk you around this floor for the next half hour,
just to keep your mind focussed."
Completely immobilised, Walsh had no option but just stand there. He was painfully
aware there was absolutely nothing he could do - and he could think of nothing
to say. It was a new experience for him, and the old hand at such games was
well aware that he held all the cards.
Pocketing the cord he reached towards Walsh's throat. The captive instinctively
tried to back away. Stand still!" barked McKillock, and the younger man
stood still while the knot in front of his throat was undone.
Uncertainly, Walsh tried to read his boss's face before tentatively lifting
his arms and with relief bringing his tied thumbs over his head and to the
front. "Fucking brilliant!" he breathed. "Bloody amazing!"
he continued as he again inspected the simple knot and tested its continued
efficiency.
The tough young ex-squaddie beamed, and McKillock enjoyed the moment. "You
see, laddie, simplicity. There's more than one way to skin a rabbit."
With that, the experienced demonstrator of useful techniques gently took hold
of the long double lace which hung from the still tied-together thumbs. In
a smooth move, the lace urged the captive hands downwards.
This Walsh allowed. But then, through the younger man's legs from behind a
hand grasped the lace, and it was already too late to resist.
Pulled tight from behind him, Walsh now found his thumbs stretched further
downwards and he could not bring them back up. The ends of the lace were being
tied to the back of the sturdy leather belt which cinched in the waist of
the cammo rain suit. Walsh was amazed to find that he was again totally immobilised.
"Jesus H. Christ," he laughed. "That's fantastic!" he
enthused as he tugged at the cord which ran between his legs. The thick rain
suit grated and squeaked as the cord ground into his ass-crack and his hands
wrestled around his groin. "Bloody brilliant!. What a fucking turn-on!
Great party trick."
"Right!" agreed the older man. "We're talking games now. Not
torture. Not brutality. Not damage. Games. Skills. Skill that you don't get
without practice. Imagination. Creativity. Competition - with rules like in
any competitive game-playing. But of course, depending on who's playing, things
can get as challenging as you like," he explained while moving behind
the still beaming Walsh. "As rough as you like. Unarmed combat takes
on a different meaning when your hands are tied. I'm betting you enjoyed the
rough and tumble of Controlled Aggression exercises when you were in the …
"
With sudden violence, the veteran Killer McKillock landed one of his boots
behind the knees of his unprepared captive would have pitched forward if the
experienced instructor hadn't grabbed him under the armpits, before lowering
him into a kneeling position.
Disconcerted, Walsh tried to look round. "What the fuck ..." But
the elbow of McKillock's greasy waxed jacket was around his neck and another
hand clamped him in a secure head-lock, forcing his chin up painfully. A voice
hissed into his ear; "So you think you're a masochist, do you? Like a
bit of pain."
A strangled cry was all that could escape from Walsh as more pressure was
applied. His tied thumbs jerked uselessly around his increasingly agitated
crotch.
"They taught you all about head-locks and pressure points. So you know
I could break your neck - or just put you to sleep - and before you wake up
have you strung up very, very painfully. But, if you've speculated on how
we did it in the old days, do you really want to know how long it would take
for me to have you begging or blubbering? Do you want to find out? Is that
the sort of game you think you want to play? Is it!? Is it?"
It was a question, but there was no possible way the ex-squaddie could answer.
Impossible for him to either nod, shake his head or give any signal. Having
established this, the calm voice continued; "They taught you about pressure
points, did they? Showed you diagrams?"
Walsh, his neck still clamped by one greasy arm, felt fingers work their way
under the back of his jacket collar. A single finger settled onto what he'd
been taught was one of the 'sleeper' nerve points. A finger that felt like
a rod of steel applied slight pressure and Walsh's head immediately began
to spin.
"Did they let you try it or feel what it felt like? Probably not,"
the voice behind him continued. "Health and safety. A man can die in
seconds, silently without a struggle. I've done it. I know."
The kneeling man, fit as he was, desperately tried to struggle against the
clamping arm. His boots grated on the earth floor but were useless. No amount
of bodyweight could help him escape the lethal finger. There was a roaring
in his ears and then he realised that the pressure had been released. But
the finger was moving to locate a different point. This again he remembered
from a lecture and a wall chart. The finger settled onto the exact spot and
his head was dragged slightly higher by the clamping arm in preparation. There
was nothing he could do to stop whatever might happen next.
The voice sounded as threatening as the finger felt threatening; "If
you want to know how tough you really are, I can think of several ways to
find out. Nasty ways."
As the finger's pressure increased Walsh began to panic. Then he was suddenly
thrown forward from his kneeling position and fell face down.
His tied together boots were grabbed to bend his legs, a weighty knee was
on his back as another hand grabbed the collar of his suit. He was inescapably
held in a painful, potentially back-breaking position. His head was reeling
because his neck was being jerked backwards in a series of short, sharp tugs
to demonstrate a possible lethal outcome.
The victim let out an involuntary cry with each jerk of his head. This was
more from frustration that he couldn't fight back rather than the pain - but
there was plenty of that.
Then suddenly he was rolled over onto his back and his legs were straight.
A knee had landed between his thighs, and his opponent had him pinned to the
ground with only one knee; no need to use his hands.
The older man glowered down at him. There was no smile.
"So am I right? You think it might be fun to know a few of the good old-fashioned
tricks of the trade do you, laddie? Well, if you want to know how to do them,
you'll first need to learn how they feel so you can do them safely. No way
am I going to trust you to practice on me until you've had plenty of time
to find out what they feel like."
Without warning, two well targeted thumbs plunged between muscles low on each
of Walsh's thighs, producing an uncontrollable howl of pain as his captive
hands jerked convulsively around his groin.
"Pain," he heard McKillock drawl as if from a distance, "can
be sudden and sharp, or slow and … "
Fingers and thumbs clamped themselves to pinch flesh below both of Walsh's
ears and then twisted with slow deliberation - and he could not hear how loud
he was yelling because of the roaring in his ears.
This demonstration of what slow-and-painful really could feel like left the
younger man gasping for breath when the fingers released their grip.
A single knee continued to hold the victim down, leaving both McKillock's
hands free to select their next target. Slowly and deliberately they reached
for points on Walsh's captive hands. At first the pressure only made him wince
and grit his teeth. But as the fingers targeted nerves in his wrists he let
out a strangled cry and then said, "Alright! Alright!"
But the pressure was not released immediately, not until the victim managed
to gasp out, "Please!"
Still sitting on Walsh's legs, McKillock relaxed back a little.
"OK. Let's establish a few ground rules for this sort of game. If you
really want to know how some of this stuff works - and achieve it even against
determined resistance - no amount of pleading is going to make me stop once
you've given me the go-ahead to show you. Right? That's something you're going
to have to agree to in advance. I will know better than you when enough is
enough. I know you like to push yourself - and it seems like being pushed
brings out the best in you - or the worst."
Walsh was too preoccupied trying regain his composure. Several stinging nerve-ends
in his neck, wrists and thighs were distracting him from really taking in
what the man still pinning him down was saying.
"If you're up for it, it can be a gradual learning curve. This old place
could be an ideal training ground - playground - battleground if you like.
It's certainly a place where nobody will hear you yelling - and I can show
you quite a few different ways to make a man yell. Then, up in the forest,
I can show you some seriously uncomfortable tricks. Things that might amuse
you, knowing your sense of humour. You were asking about stress positions.
I can show you stress positions that'll turn your legs to jelly and get every
muscle in your body shaking uncontrollably in next to no time - and if you're
tied into it - you can be tottering on the edge of unconsciousness but not
be allowed to lose consciousness to escape the pain. That's the trick to keep
a man on the edge - the edge of losing it - of losing consciousness - on the
edge of begging - before he will agree to anything to make it stop - and I
mean anything. Anything! Sound extreme?"
If this was a question, it didn't get an answer. Walsh was still dealing with
the delayed aftershock from the various assaults on his nervous system.
"Laddie, I can show you things you might get off on imagining trying
on somebody else. But the only way will be for you to first experience for
yourself just how effective they are. And, like you said, there are some seriously
un-politically correct ways when it comes to breaking down even the most determined
resistance. If you fancy your chances trying to hold out, I'll welcome the
challenge and you'll learn something when I show you what I can do to break
down resistance."
Walsh was still trying to get his breathing back to normal, and to suppress
involuntary shivering which had set in. For a moment he closed his eyes, but
a hand grabbed his chin in a vice-like grip and a firm voice insisted; "Look
at me when I'm talking to you."
When Walsh opened his eyes. There was no anger in the weather-beaten face
glowering down at him. McKillock's hand continued to grip the jaw of the younger
man for a long moment before it was released gradually. He then sat back before
continuing his calm reasoning.
"Look on this as an opportunity. You take it or you don't. You've been
restless as a ferret since you got here. You asked for information. You said
you wanted a challenge. You said you'd like to learn certain skills, right?"
Walsh squirmed uncomfortably as he lay on his back with his hands forced downwards.
His tied thumbs were getting numb. He tugged against the lace through his
crotch, but there was no give. McKillock, sitting heavily on his captive's
lower legs, gave him time to explore the limitations before insisting quietly;
"I asked you a question. I either let you up and we forget the whole
thing - or we discuss the possibilities further here and now. Yes or no?".
After a pause, Walsh nodded briefly without saying anything.
"Good man. Are your thumbs getting numb?" Again the question received
a nod. "You think you're uncomfortable?" continued the quiet questioning.
Walsh looked suspiciously into his oppressor's eyes before nodding tentatively.
"Do you want to know what uncomfortable really feels like?" was
the next question.
At this, Walsh's eyes narrowed slightly and there was just the hint of defiance
as he neither nodded or shook his head.
Slowly the experienced player of challenging games reached between the arms
so tautly stretched down the front of Walsh's body, and unbuckled his leather
belt. This McKillock released, before bringing the ends of it up on either
side of the trapped arms. Re-buckling the belt loosely, he explained gently;
"When I ask you a question and you refuse to answer, in my book that
allows me to chose either yes or no." With that he jerked the belt as
tight as it would go, strapping the trapped arms tight against Walsh's body.
The younger man determinedly refused to acknowledge the extra discomfort as
he lay there, but the air had been forced out of his lungs and his shallow
breathing was painful in itself.
After regarding his captive for a while McKillock continued in a relaxed tone;
"So, you agree to explore the possibilities of trying some of this stuff
a bit further?" and then added challengingly, "Yes or no?"
Walsh could not resist the challenge. He nodded grimly.
The older man also nodded.
"You said you wanted to know more about interrogation techniques. Tell
me, in the barracks, messing about with your mates, did you ever experiment
among yourselves? Jump a man with a couple of rolls of duct tape and then
give him a rough time?"
Walsh frowned and then shook his head but remained silent.
"What never?" insisted McKillock and the question received a tentative
noncommittal shrug.
"Ah ha! What about speculating on things you'd been told were now prohibited,
like water-torture? - or a hand-cranked generator and a couple of electro-clips?
In my day both were part of the official manual of interrogation training.
Nowadays, as you said, a total no-no. But, unofficially, did any of the blokes
ever try them?"
Again Walsh silently shook his head.
"Not even tie some poor bugger down, put a dry towel over his face and
then gradually drip water on it to see him squirm?"
More emphatically Walsh shook his head in a negative.
"What is the modern army coming to!" mused McKillock. "So,
is that perhaps something you might like to find out how you would deal with?
Is it?"
This was a blunt question, but despite his increasing discomfort Walsh remained
determinedly still, fully aware that by his refusal to answer he would hand
over responsibility for whatever was to happen next.
"Good," said McKillock, "that's one for the agenda - I even
know where there's an old hand-cranked telephone if you fancy your chances."
If this was intended to provoke a response, Walsh had obviously decided to
tough it out - so an impassive stillness was Walsh's only response. This was
obviously becoming a battle of wills.
"How good were you on Escape and Evasion exercises? I can show you a
few tricks there. Among my traps and snares there's a man-size capture net.
Ever seen one or been in one? No?"
Still no response.
"Suspended from a branch in one of those, every muscle in your body is
gradually crushed. Cramp inevitably sets in and there's fuck all you can do
to relieve it as your own bodyweight slowly drags you lower. If you really
want to soften somebody up, a night left alone to suffer in one of those is
something you never forget. Ask a couple of the local yokels here. When I
first arrived they thought it was great sport to try and outwit the new keeper.
A night in a capture net followed by a gentle talking to was all it took.
Oh, except on one occasion. A local hard-nut just couldn't resist the challenge
of a second shot. So I really put the frighteners on him by introducing him
to another little trick I'd practiced more than once.
If you've never buried a man up to his neck, there's a lot to learn about
getting the pit just right - and how to get a reluctant captive into it and
then filled in just to the right level under his chin. I could show you how
that works if you like?"
This was another invitation to respond, but Walsh was determined to not give
an inch. But he was breathing more heavily.
McKillock continued, knowing that the information was making an impact. "It
takes practice to get something like that spot on. After you've filled it
in, getting the ground level tight up under the chin, but leaving no dip in
case it rains when he's left alone all night. Not too low, not too high. Certainly
no mound up around his shoulders that he might push away when he gets desperate.
And believe me, they do get desperate. I know from experience. You see, I've
not only done it more than once, I've had it done to me. Best way to learn.
And I had some very experienced teachers."
But then he suddenly changed tack; "We can discuss different possibilities
in a more relaxed situation, if you like. Take our time planning as we go
about our day-to-day business. But, before your arms go completely numb and
your thumbs drop off, there is one thing we need to settle here and now. If
you agree to let me teach you a few tricks of the trade - how things work
- how they're done - and you want to test yourself by seeing how much you
can take ..."
McKillock suddenly back-tracked and asked; "That is a big part of it
for you, isn't it? Showing how much you can take."
To this specific point, Walsh willingly nodded agreement.
"Right!" McKillock confirmed. "You want to retain the right
to put up as much resistance as I let you get away with? Right?"
To this a determined silent nod agreed more definitely.
"Good man! You're up for a challenge and so am I. But, let's get this
absolutely clear; once you give me the go-ahead, your aim will be to refuse
to give the answers I want to hear and not agree to what I have decided to
make you agree to ..."
Another emphatic nod at this point went unregistered because McKillock had
not finished his sentence.
" … and in the process of me showing you a whole catalogue of persuasive
little tricks, my objective will be to bring you to a state when you will
be willing to agree to anything."
Again he didn't allow time for any response to this statement before continuing;
"I know at this moment you can't imagine that situation. Well, that will
be part of the learning process for you. Whatever it takes - if you agree
to go ahead with this game. Whatever it takes, I will do. No lasting damage
but otherwise no holds barred. Right? A comprehensive, very practical demonstration
of different ways to bring a man to a point where he will agree to anything."
McKillock left time for the man underneath him to decide how to respond. But
Walsh's jaw remained determinedly shut. Flat on his back, his neck and wrist
muscles still throbbing - the crushing tightness of the belt across his clamped
rigid arms - the weight of McKillock's solidly built body pinning his lower
legs - even the discomfort of the boots on the wrong feet all contributed
to the younger man's determination not to give an inch at this stage of the
game. Because in his mind, Walsh did know this was a game - the sort of game
he relished. His eyes held those of the man looking down at him and they gave
away nothing.
McKillock received the message and nodded, perhaps approvingly before saying;
"Just one more thing before I let you up - I think the rain's stopped,"
he suddenly interrupted himself to remark, "The longer you hold out,
the higher the price you will have to pay for release. OK? When you reach
the point when you except that that you've had enough, I will make you do
whatever I've been insisting you agree to. And the longer it takes me to force
that agreement out of you, the less you will like the price to be paid, and,"
he ended with a sort of smile, "it will not be any five mile run! The
blokes in charge of trying to find punishments you really, really wouldn't
like when you were in the army, had to play within the rules. I was trained
to not play by anybody's rules."
Abruptly he changed tone and said brightly; "So, are you ready for me
to let you up so we can get back to work?"
Slightly fazed by this sudden change of mood, Walsh gave a curt nod and McKillock
deftly unbuckled the leather belt and stood up.
Walsh's arms and hands screamed as his blood which had been restricted for
so long surged through them. But when he bent his arms, a new pain coursed
through them. He tried to sit up, but his boots were still tied together,
as were his thumbs.
McKillock knelt to the tied-together boots and cut the lace with the pocket
knife he always carried. He looked up, knife still in hand, and met the younger
man's gaze.
Walsh offered him his tied thumbs, and looking at the knife, McKillock mischievously
asked, "Do you trust me?"
Narrowing his eyes, Walsh said; "I'm going to bloody have to, aren't
I," before flashing a rugged grin. His employer and seemingly new friend
took hold of the sleeves of Walsh's jacket and helped him to his feet.
While finding his balance, the discomfort of the boots immediately imposed
itself. The whole of his body ached. He flexed his neck and breathed a general
acknowledgement of his battered condition, but smiled ruefully as McKillock
looked up from untying the lace around his thumbs.
"So, do we have a game plan?" he asked.
Walsh considered the situation before saying; "A few of the old tricks?
Like how to tie this sneaky knot. And other old, old tricks - like in the
old days."
The ironic tone of this made the older man look up as he released the thumb
knot.
Walsh massaged his aching thumbs, before saying provocatively, "If you
think you're up to it - old man."
THE END
Jim Stewart. April 2010.