Ultimatum

I was going to eat my ice cream from the top of the climbing frame, watching everyone else from above – my sense of luxury at six years old. My skin was simmering slightly in the warm embrace of the Sun and the weather made the cold ice cream even more irresistible. I couldn’t wait to taste the cold melting drops which dripped down the cone. I longed to taste the vanilla which was strong enough to leave a taste in your mouth but subtle enough to leave you wanting more after each bite.

I didn’t make it to the climbing frame: I was running towards it in the playground, and then I fell onto the unforgiving asphalt and knocked myself out.

My senses slowly return and I try to blink my eyes open. I can’t see anything, neither can I open my eyes fully – something is wrapped around my head. The blindfold, or whatever it is, is so tight that I feel like a victim to a a snake, or a watermelon constricted by tens of elastic bands. The more I adjust to consciousness, the more vivid every sensation becomes and a rough pain at the back of my head intensifies into a constant yet audible throbbing. Along with the throbbing, I can hear a high-pitched ringing, so I must have been hit by something very hard. I attempt to survey the back of my head but realise that my hands are tied up behind me and my arms are against the edges of the wooden chair-back, causing me discomfort which I’m sure will extend to bruising.

LOOK AT ME!

Not only do I hear these words but I feel them too. The deep authoritative voice makes me jump and I feel each syllable vibrate from within my bones. I know the sound came from in front of me, but it was almost as if it was right behind me, crawling up my neck. I feel the blindfold being aggressively ripped from my head, which causes my neck to jolt forwards. Another pain to add to the list, the back of my neck clicks and I hope there’s no long-lasting damage. The blindfold was a black bandana, which I realise when it’s thrown in my face.

Although my eyes are freed, they are watery and everything is near-pitch black: I can vaguely make out a figure opposite me, almost blending in with the near-pitch blackness of the room. I blink away tears which must have been a result of the head trauma, in an attempt to clear my vision; upon successfully clearing my vision, I attempt to peruse my surroundings. The chair I’m on is surrounded by copious amounts of empty bottles and the flooring is black. Other than that, I can’t gage any other specifics about the room which means the walls must be far away. Sometimes I think I can see pillars but I’m unsure if that’s the trick of the lighting, or lack-of, causing me to imagine things.

An echoing crash repeats itself three times as huge white LED lights are turned on all around me, and as a result I am forced to squint. I still can’t see walls so the lights have been placed closely, perhaps to blind me – or perhaps intimidate me. Despite the strain-like pain on my eyes, I force myself to keep them open in an attempt to get a look at who I assume my life is at mercy to. My interrogator. Torturer. Executor.

The intense beams line his figure, a pitch-black silhouette being eaten by the light surrounding us. Rather than fingers, his arms just fade into light and instead of a full round head I see a stick. The image is almost comical, like a cartoon, but my fear grounds me and I see no reason for humour.

I think I’m going to die. The stick figure comes closer until it towers over me, and I can make-out some of its features: trench-like frown-lines bracket his mouth and I assume they come with that permanent-fold of the skin between the eyebrows. I can see little white hairs that decorate his face and as this man looms over me I realise that he has little white hairs on the back of his hands too. And one of those hands is heading right towards me, and I wonder why: and then it hits me.

As I attempted to shake the cobwebs, I realised I was still quite dizzy.

ARE YOU OK? I hear someone ask me.

He helped me brush the small pieces of gravel off my face, legs, and hands. Each piece left its mark as if my skin was memory-foam: a pinching feeling remained and I inspected the small marks they left on my skin. Each of these marks seemed to be dancing, and I realised that the whole world seemed to be spinning.

I had a small cut on my forehead: I only know this because this is how Ben tells me the story goes. We were sat together in Medical and he was holding a wet paper towel to my head. He also told me that he took me there which sounds like something he would do.

I don’t remember much, but I remember thinking that everything was going to be okay, and this was for two reasons: The first was that I had made a new friend, and I was sure that Ben was going to be my best friend for life. Reason number two was because we all knew that the blue paper towels in Medical solved everything. Well, almost everything. They couldn’t do anything for my ice cream. I can’t remember the conversation I had with Ben, nor can I remember the rest of that day – but he told me that he gave me his ice-cream token. This small act was the beginning of a long and decorated friendship – one that has stood the test of time.

If you had asked me if I would die for him, I would definitely have said yes. I would have done anything for him.

This time I regain consciousness I find myself choking. It’s harder to breathe so I gag and sputter and spit whatever I can to try to clear my mouth and my airways. I’m spitting blood which means that punch not only knocked me out but tore my gums. I can only imagine that the teeth on my left jaw are caked in thick dark red blood as my left cheek is silently screaming due to being numbed by the blow.

WHY DID YOU STEAL FROM ME?

With every word he punched me in the stomach. I cough and choke some more, trying to wheeze some oxygen back into my lungs and resist the urge to vomit. My throat feels invaded and hot from some stomach reflux and I would do anything to be set free.

His words were accusative, as if I chose to target him. If I knew the owner of the briefcase was a maniac like this man, I wouldn’t have even set my eyes upon it! I find myself getting lost in my words, often stuttering and powering through my nerves: I defend myself, struggling to find the right words, trying to say the right thing that would make this man decide to let me go. I try to paint him a clear picture so he knows I only did this out of desperation. This wasn’t a personal attack, but an impersonal inconvenience – I didn’t mean to get caught up whatever this was, I just needed the money.

After minutes of my babbling, he seems to cool down slightly. It feels as if he is satisfied that no one is chasing him, but it won’t do me any favours: I think he wants to kill me. It sounds like he would enjoy it, too.

I can’t seem to understand him: Who is he? What sort of man interrogates like this? Why doesn’t he have a gang or goons? I half-expect him to have a gang of angry men with baseball bats waiting to emerge from beyond the lights to treat me like a piñata. Whatever he is a mystery not worth solving, and whatever that briefcase contained must either be invaluable or dangerous.

This morning I thought I was going to make an easy grab; I didn’t realise I would be left with a dilemma.

I had visited this café for the past two weeks: I admired the 90s décor and music. It took me back to a time that I hadn’t lived through, where everything was vintage and impressive from cars to music. The music was played on a jukebox which had a faux vinyl record spinning in a frame. The walls were covered in murals dedicated to celebrities and pop-culture that dominated the 90s.

On every single day in that fortnight, I would spot the same man at the same table at the same time, but in different suits. His dark brown hair always was shiny with product and combed into a tight parting. What he was up to would depend on the day: sometimes he held meetings with others, occasionally he would make an item-exchange, and once or twice he seemed to be simply sifting through emails on his laptop.

The day I decided to take action was an exchange-making day: he had a thick briefcase on the floor to his left. The same briefcase he used in his previous exchanges. Having scoped him for two weeks, I knew that he was well-endowed with money and as such should be dealing with expensive products. Before I went into my plan, I thought: Business as usual. This will be easy, I’m a professional!

Sadly, this is what I do for a living – if you could call it a living. Ben had helped me focus on my academia and I will always be grateful for that, but I haven’t been able to secure a job in nine months – and as this timeframe increases, it gets harder to appear professional and I can tell I’m more likely to be rejected. I’m very envious of him as he was always in the top sets and top of the class, and he’s now on his way to becoming a lawyer. I’m not saying that I would like to study law, those textbooks are depressingly ancient and huge, but his knack for working hard and breaking the glass ceiling always has me in awe.

The sound of glass shattering makes me jump, as does practically any other noise the man makes. His footsteps resume, echoing, stepping around me slowly in time with a ticking clock. He is stalking me as a lion stalks its prey – or rather plays with its food. As he circles me, I see the light switch focus on the different parts of his face. His features change as his angle from the light does, and the shadows cast by his nose and wrinkles almost dance as if they taunt me.

Suddenly, he stops in front of me and holds a broken bottle to his face. A sadistic grin slowly forms on his face and he sticks his tongue out to lick the sharp cuts of the broken bottle. Although I turn my head and close my eyes, I still managed to see his twisted joke and it is an image that will haunt me for the rest of my life – whether I die here and now, or if I die in seventy years. He winces in pain but also makes sounds of joy and pleasure. Through moans of pain and enjoyment, he begins to laugh a loud and uncontrollable cackle before spitting blood and saliva – and it hits me between my eyes.

I’m not just going to die here; I’m going to be humiliated. He’s playing a game of cat and mouse, but the cat’s already won.

The café had a hygiene rating of five out of five, so it was a shame to ruin their credibility. Upon my trip to the bathroom, I took my briefcase – which was almost identical to his, minus the contents; I doubt he was carrying a mouse in his. A rather unconventional plan, I know, but it worked, for the most part.

The restrooms were connected to the main café by an L-shaped corridor, so I was able to open my case and release the mouse outside the gentleman’s. I placed a small piece of cheese for it to nibble on whilst I made my way back to my table, and waited for my plan to unfold.

It’s a funny era we live in: rewind five to ten years and cafés and restaurants had the distinct roar of human life. All of these places shared the general background noise that was composed of laughter and conversation. People would pay attention to others and their surroundings, and eyes were everywhere. Nowadays, I find that people are quieter and gaze around less, and as technologies and smart-phones grow in accessibility and capability, the vibrant buzzing of busy places has declined. The scene in a café is now a handful of scattered conversations with the majority of people taking photos of themselves, or scrolling through their phones. I took advantage of this: I brought everyone’s attention to the mouse when it’s on the business-man’s right – therefore I’d have easy access to his case on the left.

I walked out of the place with his briefcase, leaving my empty case in its place; It was easy, really. The whole café erupted into chaos over the mouse and no one’s eyes were on me.

The lights had been dimmed and I could open my eyes fully now; my eyelids were sore having been in a forced squint for so long. My left cheek is starting to regain sensation and I swear I can feel it bruising; as for my right: I feel a burning since he scraped it with the glass bottle. From the wounds he drew into my skin oozes warm blood, and I wonder how much more I’m going to lose before he decides to kill me.

I can’t see him as he’s prancing about behind me. I dread to think about what he’s about to do. Will he start beating me from behind? Cut me further with that bottle? I don’t want to die but if that’s how this ends then just put me out of my misery, already! I can hear a slow scraping sound, like wood. The sound billows its way through my ears and the longer it goes on for, the more on-edge I get.

SET ME FREE! I’LL DO ANYTHING YOU ASK!

I cry out of desperation after screaming at the man. The scraping continues and I realise it’s another chair he’s pulling up in front of me. His mouth is bloody but he smiles with his teeth, and I can’t tell whether they’re rotting or if he washes his teeth in blood. His body spasms as he begins to laugh, yet again, as if I had offered him what he already owned.

THEN YOU MUST MAKE A CHOICE.

Yes, I’ll do anything. Give me the chance and I’ll show you that I deserve to be free.

WOULD YOU SELL OUT YOUR BEST FRIEND? WOULD YOU CONDEMN THEM TO DIE HERE IN YOUR PLACE?

That’s when I realised:

When people ask you if you could ever kill someone, you always exclaim with a no. I could never kill anyone, who would? You would have to be a psychopath! In fact, most or even every answer would be a no – but do people really mean it?

The preposition is usually asked as a hypothetical scenario but the people involved in the conversation think and speak from the point of view of their current circumstances, never being able to put themselves in the position of true desperation. Right now, I’m desperate for my life!

So, would I betray my friend?

Would I trade Ben’s life for mine?