Crocodile Farm

5.

The woman in the fire is in his dream, walking in through the glass doors, silhouetted against the flames. She stands, tight black curls on end like she's been static-electricked, arms slightly out from her sides, in her weird, incongruous ensemble: white coat, silk trousers,bare feet. Her face is mostly in shadow, the light of the fire burns behind her, behind the glass door, as she stands and surveys the ruinous mess. Elliott has seen the woman in the fire many times in his dreams. She looks sad, shocked to find the place engulfed by flames, but there is something in her that is also powerful, like she has emerged from the fire itself. His only thought when he sees he ris always: this is my fault. I have caused this.

When he wakes again, in the cell for the second time, his brain feels clearer and better-rested than yesterday, and he realises that he was not drugged last night, and he takes that for a good sign. The contents of the toilet have been removed, and someone has refilled his water bottle. The feeling of the dream, the guilt, the child-like terror of being caught, lingers, as it always does. If he were home,he would reach for a notepad, try to string some lyrics together from this feeling of unease. But here, he feels all creativity stifled,and he has nothing to write on anyway.

The door beeps and he turns towards it, automatically, a lab rat that's been conditioned. He feels the tightness in his neck and body as he moves, his muscles contracting and pressing against their bruised casings. What will happen next? They've already used their beatings on him, and it hasn't worked; does today get more serious, or are they going to give up on him?

Somehow, he knows they're not going to give up on him.

The man in the suit walks in, followed by someone Elliott has never seen before, a tanned bloke not much older than Elliott, who looks like he should be in a commercial holding a beer, instead of clutching here, a writhing Belle by the hair. The brutality of it shocks Elliott: even after everything that happened yesterday, and the sounds she made behind the door, he had still somewhat expected Belle to be whole, defiant. She looks broken and exhausted; her face has been beaten, her jaw is swollen and purple – maybe broken. There are dark circles under her eyes which might be tiredness or might be bruising. Her hands are fastened behind her back and she bucks against the tanned man's hand, while he holds her out from his body as though she's contaminated.

Elliott clings to the bars and meets her eyes and hers grow wide at the sight of him. He must look bad: unwashed, and battered, but not as bad as this. Tears come to his eyes at the sight of her and he mouths, whispers, "I'm sorry.I'm so sorry." And that feeling from the dream comes up again, the scent of the flames fills his nostrils, the look on the woman's face is searing as she is engulfed by fire: Your fault, your fault like he's a child.

Belle tries to speak, but she can't through the broken jaw, and Suit laughs.

"Brilliant," he says. "Now you wanna talk."

"Elliott..." she gets out. "Don't tell them..."

"I can't tell them," he wails. "I can't, I don't know anything..." He means to add, I don't remember, but that is ridiculous – he has nothing to remember,are they asking him to remember his dream?

The tanned man is only the same height as Belle, but she is so slight and her hands bound so tightly that he keeps hold of her. Elliott watches this with the terror of the caged animal: what is he really watching here? But he knows, he knows, it's just that his brain doesn't want to process it. Think think think think.

He can't think. His head is a swirling mess, his arms are shaking with weakness and pain and anger. The younger guy steps back and Suit stands beside Belle, his palm flat on the top of her head.

"I feel terrible, I did not introduce myself yesterday," he says. "I had thought you might remember me, from the night we met." His tone says that it is entirely Elliott's failing that this didn't happen. "I am Andre Gleeson. This is Leigh Montville. My friend, over there -" he motions to the door, and Elliott glances up to see that Neckless has made an appearance, and stands guard next to the keypad - "is Oswald Leckie. You know Belle here, of course." He lets out a low laugh. "So now we're all acquainted. I see no further reason why this need be drawn out. Just tell us what we want to know."

"I don't know anything," Elliott says, the millionth time, but this time looking at Belle, pleading, he hopes, that she might help him, might know what it is he needs to say so that they can both walk free. Her eyes are drooping with pain, but she is watching him, and he can see the love there, the love she has always had for him and which he has done nothing to earn. And he looks back at her, and hopes there is love in his face too, and that she can see how sorry he is, and that he knows this is his fault, and that the woman in the dream will never let him forget it as long as he lives. And that he'll live with that, if he must, that he can live with that as long as they let him and Belle walk free from here, and go back to their simple, unassuming lives.

"Listen to me, you little shit," Suit- Gleeson - says, his smarmy demeanour slipping. The expletive sounds weird on him, but Elliott snaps to attention. "We will get it out of you. We will get it out of you, whether you know it's there or not. We have ways to do it – we'd rather not use them if we don't have to, but we will use them. And rest assured that we will find out what you know."

Belle mutters something unintelligible, and at a nod from Gleeson, Montville turns and whacks her across the face, the way Gleeson did with Elliott yesterday, but with her, it looks a million times more painful. Elliott winces and Belle makes a sound like an strangled animal, halfway between a scream and a howl.

"We will break every one of your fingers, you little fuck," Gleeson spits at Belle. "Elliott, you hear that? We'll break every one of her fingers, one by one, in front of you, until you tell me what you know."

"Please," Elliott whispers. His brain is turning like cogs in concrete, he can't do it, can't think of a way out. "Please don't hurt her. I'll do anything you want. I'll tell you anything you want."

Belle moans again, a protest, she doesn't want him to tell them anything, but he won't listen to her, he'll block her out, he'll get them both through this nightmare and he'll keep her safe.

"I dare say you will," says Gleeson.

Elliott looks into his sister's eyes. They are clouded with pain, her head is lolling, she looks like she's about to pass out. "I'm sorry," he whimpers. "I'm so sorry."

"I love you," she says, the words thick as molasses.

"This is so touching." Gleeson raises one eyebrow. And Belle wrenches free of Montville's grasp, and bolts to the door, and ducks under Leckie's arms – God, she's fast, considering the injured leg which threatens to buckle beneath her – and Leckie lurches forward to grab the back of her shirt and pull her back into the room.

Elliott rushes forward, but the bars catch him, and Gleeson, still unhurried, pulls a gun from the holster at his belt, steps over to Leckie, and shoots Belle in the head.