I want him incapacitated, not dead.
Not yet.
Grabbing the generic supermarket brand of duct tape, I work quickly to tape his wrists to his thighs, looping and looping the tape until he looks like some bizarre high school art installation.
Can’t have him getting free.
Then I sit on the coffee table across from him and wait.
It takes him two minutes to come back to himself with a start. His face is red and sweat-soaked as he takes in my mask, chest still working to catch his breath.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he croaks.
I say nothing.
A panel show on television comes on behind me. Laughter echoes around the room, replacing the laughter that once mocked me. A nice touch provided by the universe.
He tries again, already moving on to the bargaining part of the process. ‘I’ve got money upstairs.’
‘I don’t want your money, Pete.’
His name stops him. His eyes narrow. ‘How do you know who I am?’
‘Why don’t you know who I am?’ I ask.
A pause.
‘I can’t see your face,’ he says.
I pull the mask off and stare at him, waiting to see if recognition will come. It’s been a long time, and I was likely one of many boys.
I watch his face ripple through emotions, seeking to match my face to a name. His expression shifts, not in recognition, but perhaps in realising why someone my age might hold a grudge against him.
‘Take your time,’ I say.
‘I don’t—’ He stops again.
‘No.’ I lean forward, close enough that he can’t look anywhere except at me. ‘You don’t. That’s a problem, isn’t it? It meant nothing to you. You ruined my life, and you don’t even remember. Didn’t you think those little boys would grow into men?’
The colour leaves his face.
Bingo.
‘I’m going to ask you some questions,’ I tell him. ‘You’re going to answer them, or I’m going to start loppingoff fingers.’
His mouth opens and closes, searching for a denial or an excuse. I pull the bolt cutters from my pocket and wave them at him.
He lets out a shrill scream that makes me wince.
I punch him in the face, sending a cascade of blood streaming down his vest. It shuts him up.
‘Stop your bloody crying, lad,’ I mock.
And there it is, the recognition comes with a widening of his eyes. ‘You’re Jake’s boy.’
‘Mhm.’
‘What happened to him? You went off into care, we guessed he up and left you.’
