Davy remembered the prick of a needle. Dream or reality, he did not care. Peculiar sensations raced around his mind. He wandered, lost in a maze of shadows where faces appeared and faded. Oblivion overtook him as he tumbled into a black hole
In the dark, he awoke confused. Fear grew as bitter memories of the orphanage gushed from the jumble of his mind. An aching head and a parched throat hurt. He winced when he touched the Band-Aids on his upper arms. The crispness of cotton sheets gave him the impression of a hospital bed. He groped for his watch but found nothing. In desperation, he pulled himself upright. Had they moved him to another room? He slid out of bed and lowered his feet to the floor. The sensation of a deep-pile carpet confused his thoughts. When his left hand touched a smooth wall, and he began edging his way along. He searched for a door or a light switch; there did not appear to be either. After what seemed an age, he bumped into the bed and sat on its edge
Frightened, he pondered his plight. Without warning, the room turned brilliant white. With his right hand, he shielded his eyes. Ten minutes elapsed before he could see. To his amazement, there, fitted into a wall of this windowless room, was a door. With no hesitation, he slid off the bed and started to walk.
"Return to your bed," ordered an unknown voice.
He obeyed, sat and waited until a tall, thin man in his mid-fifties with grey hair entered. The way he carried a metal-framed chair indicated he could take care of himself. Davy noticed his immaculate dark pinstripe suit and the light which reflected off his polished shoes.
The man stared at him and, in a well-educated voice, asked, "Do you mind if I remove my jacket? It's a hot day. Much less formal. It's David, isn't it?" His voice was calm but had an edge to it.
Davy sat motionless, wondering if it was worth risking a run for freedom. The door was still open. His eyes moved in that direction.
"Don't even try." The man turned his head, 'Harry.'
A shorter and much younger man dressed in an identical suit came into view. Harry Falkus nodded his bald head and moved out of sight.
"I imagine you're confused? I know money is your god. It's gone, the yacht, the money, the woman, and you're dead" He paused. "My, my, you've gone quiet. You must have a million questions to ask."
Davy studied the man, but his composure worried him. "What's it to you? Why are you keeping me here?"
"Ah, two good questions! This," he made a circle in the air with his hands, "is your prison cell until we reach an agreement. What do I want? I demand your diligence and loyalty. I'm telling you that when you make a pact with the devil, no one will miss you. I am your God, and I choose if you live, or die. What's your real name? I must say, your fake passport is brilliant, although this David Jones died at the age of twelve."
Davy shrugged
The grey-haired man leaned forward and fixed him with a stare. "I don't give a toss, but this meeting will decide if you have a future."
Davy grimaced. "I am what I am."
"Harry," The other man entered with an attaché case, placed it on the floor and left.
"Pick it up, David, and open it. You'll find its contents interesting."
He picked up the case and placed it on the bed. On opening, it revealed a folder filled with photographs detailing the destruction of the Red Mafia house.
"Not that you knew, my team were, undertaking surveillance on properties belonging to the Mob. You ruined months of hard work. Your escape plan was interesting, and we did wonder where you were going. The storm was a dividend. I own you: You're mine to do with, as I want. The arrangement is simple: it's time you did something for your country. You have a while to decide."
