The Philosophy of Torture.

More jottings from a possible novel, still at the planning stage.

 

He was unarmed and the other man had a pistol pointed directly at his chest, but he felt no fear.

He had trained his mind, and by extension his body, to seek out fear and indecision in others. He was impervious to bluff and would have been a legendary poker player if he’d not chosen his present occupation. His senses were on full alert, probing for the faintest sign of weakness in his opponent.

The way in which the man with the gun held it in a firm grip that didn’t waver was confirmation enough that the gun was loaded. That effectively ruled out the direct approach. It didn’t make any difference; he never doubted that he would prevail, even in such a subservient position. He’d had guns pointed at him before and had always been victorious. The other man hadn’t pulled the trigger. Which meant that he wasn’t dead yet and still had time to plan his strategy.

“I’d have expected more from a man with your reputation,” the other man said.

Indra didn’t reply.

He wasn’t interested in a dialogue; it was enough that the other man wanted to talk. Every moment wasted in speech extended the chances of a change in the point of advantage. The gun was still rock-steady, but Indra knew from experience how heavy that weapon would begin to feel with the passage of time.

“Nothing to say, eh?” the other man asked. “No explanations or excuses?”

Indra remained silent. He knew now that with the obvious advantage he possessed, the other man was more interested in scoring points than killing him.

The balance of power was shifting but only Indra knew it.

He kept his attention focussed on the other man’s gun hand and was rewarded with a faint tremor. Ideally, the opponent would back off a pace or two, re-grip and loosen his fingers while still retaining the ability to point, aim and fire before Indra could get near him. That is what he would have done in this position, but the other man did nothing. Indra felt a surge of adrenalin with this confirmation that the point of advantage was now firmly on his side.

Indra met the other man’s gaze and smiled with chilling ferocity.

“What the fuck you smiling at?”

The pistol wavered again, his fingers gleaming white as far as the first knuckle with the effort of maintaining pressure on the trigger for so long.

Indra knew his opponent by now. He was confident that the other man would not simply step back and empty the weapon into Indra’s chest. Over-confident and goaded to rage by Indra’s apparent absence of fear, he moved forward and pressed the barrel of the gun against Indra’s chest, pushing hard.

“Not smiling now, are you?” he snarled through clenched teeth, raising his eyes to stare at Indra. At the exact moment the other man shifted his gaze, Indra half-turned his body to present a smaller target and simultaneously struck the other man’s wrist with the edge of his hand.

The gun bellowed and Indra grimaced as the bullet scored a shallow groove across the full width of his chest, burning fiercely and seeping blood onto his shirt. As he continued his half-turn, pivoting on his left leg, his steel toecap struck the inside of the other man’s knee with stunning force. The area is a key nerve centre and the man fell instantly, like a marionette with severed strings, screaming shrilly and clutching at his shattered kneecap. Indra caught the gun in mid-air and threw it away. He had no need of the weapon; the man still screaming on the floor was no threat at all.

Removing his shirt, Indra examined the groove across his chest. It hurt, but the pain was manageable and the bleeding was of little consequence. Nothing that he couldn’t deal with himself.

He searched the cupboards and found a clean white sheet that he tore into strips. He breathed in deeply and bound the strips of sheet tightly around his chest until the bleeding stopped.  Dismissing the wound from his mind he walked back to where the gunman lay. He needed information.

“Who sent you?”  Indra barked. The man on the floor moaned in agony, his face ashen, but made no reply.

“Who sent you?” The repetition of the question was deliberate and when he again failed to receive an answer, he moved forward and stared directly at the other man.

“You should answer me now,” Indra said, his voice clear and in control, demanding the other man’s attention. “It will help you when the time comes for you to die. If you think what you feel now is pain, you are mistaken. The amount of pain you will feel depends on your answers to my questions.”

No response other than a stifled gasp of agony.

Indra shrugged his shoulders. “Your choice. You’ve already made one very costly mistake. Don’t make another.”

The gunman groaned, raising his head to look at his tormentor, his hands scrabbling on the floor in a frantic search for his weapon. Indra smiled at him, almost benevolently. “You won’t be needing the gun,” he said. “It cost you the use of your knee. Forget about it, that’s my advice. Used correctly, it’s a good weapon. The problems come when you think it’s all you need. Like just now for instance. You should have kept your distance. The gun could have killed me just as easily from five yards away. You had the gun and I had nothing. You held the power of life and death and it made you careless. Also, you like to talk. Big mistake.”

He looked down at the man on the floor whose eyes remained fixed on his own.

”I can afford to talk. You can’t do me any damage and I don’t need a gun to prove it. Talking is good. I also enjoy talking. But you can see the difference, can’t you? Now I am in control and you are lying on the floor with a knee that will never work again. You can’t get up; you can’t reach me or do me any damage. This is when it is a good time to talk. But it is time for you to talk to me now. I need answers and you will give me those answers.”

Indra kicked the other man on the inside of his damaged knee. A precise blow that he’d aimed with great precision and heard the crunch of bone and splintering cartilage. The other man screamed once and was silent, losing consciousness and banging the back of his head on the stone floor as he fell back.

Indra left him without a backward glance. He needed certain items from the boot of his car and the other man wouldn’t be going anywhere in the next few minutes. He needed to know who’d sent the intended assassin, but he also relished this opportunity to further hone his skills in a field of endeavour in which he believed he had no serious rival.

The systematic torture of a fellow human being requires a special breed of man. A man able to stand aside from the agony his efforts are causing and watch dispassionately, without pity or remorse, concentrating solely on any revelations of weakness. A sadist will inflict pain for his own pleasure, while a true professional concentrates only on the effect of his actions. No effort should be wasted; nothing left to chance. Torture should always have a purpose and an expert could elevate the most brutal act into an art form. Indra was an expert in the art of torture and regarded himself as a true artist.

In most cases, torture was merely window dressing. In most cases, his victims were intended to be discovered and the means of their death would serve as a reminder of the ultimate cost of betrayal or failure. A mutilated body was a reliable and effective deterrent.

It is a common misconception that torture as a means of obtaining information should be prolonged to the point at which the victim seeks only the opportunity to prolong their life and will provide the desired information in return for a cessation of pain.

Indra had seen many men plead for mercy and knew that obtaining the truth was only part of the package.

His victims always talked eventually.

Some broke more readily than others, but they all broke in the end.

His artistry lay in the means he chose to bring about that end result.

Versatility was the key. He’d studied the acknowledged masters of his craft through the centuries, adding to and refining their techniques until he was absolutely certain that no man could resist his efforts. What worked with one subject would be ineffective with another and it was in this variety of responses that he gained his greatest satisfaction.

The basic tools for cutting, crushing and burning all had their uses and strategically placed electrical current had the potential for dramatic results, but Indra found his greatest pleasure lay in probing for a specific weakness and using that knowledge to inflict overwhelming pain on the subject.

When the end came, all usable information would have been gained long since. A plea for life would have been disregarded; it was only when the victim begged for death that Indra could be convinced that his work was near the end.

The victim would have known by that point that his or her life was already forfeit and that only the manner of their death was still to be decided. It was only at that stage that Indra could allow himself to enjoy his work and proceed in accordance with his own desires. A man seeking only death could still provide pleasure for the dedicated practitioner. This man would be no different.

When Indra had discovered the identity of the man’s employer, he would have no further need of him except as a means of passing a message to that person. The message would be a demonstration of his power and the fate that awaited whoever had made himself an enemy of Indra.

The mutilation of the body would have to be extreme for maximum effect and Indra savoured the opportunity to show his skills in keeping the man alive long enough for him to suffer unimaginable agony.

He smiled as he took a clanking bag of tools from the boot of his car and walked swiftly back to where his victim was waiting. The next few hours held the promise of being very pleasant indeed.