Breaking Point Read Online Free Page A

movements - don’t want to cut proceedings short, do we?”
    Funny fucker. No, we do not. I hold my breath and try and find a stillness and rigidity that stops short of trembling. I manage it, which we’ll call a win. I achieve this only because I’m reasonably confident that, while the real pain is imminent, he’s not planning on starting just yet. This is exactly what he said, an inspection, finding out what he has to work with, how long I’m likely to last. How bad I’m already hurt.
    Sure. But just the same, try not to twitch and make him draw blood. He does get carried away. Don’t get him started. Sure enough, he starts sawing at the neckline of my T-shirt. It’s slow work getting through the neck band, but he’s strong and the blade is obviously pretty sharp, and once it gives way, the rest of the fabric gives with only a faint purr. Either I was riding untucked, or that happened sometime after I came off my bike - either way I’m grateful. Although pulling it out might have given me a few extra precious seconds, the thought of him leaning on my stomach, even gently, to do so - hey, let’s not, shall we?
    My T-shirt is in two, and he peels it aside until my torso is bare. I don’t look down, but I don’t need to; his face tells a story, and not a pretty one. He winces, as if in sympathy, and then gives The Whistle. The one you usually hear from the mechanic at the garage just before something deeply expensive happens. Let me guess. My bodywork is fucked. Gonna need a whole new front end.
    “Fucking hell. I really went for it with that bat, didn’t I? Don’t know my own fucking strength, mate. Sorry about that. This why you’re breathing like that? Hurts?”
    I risk a nod. Slowly. It’s not too bad - the tendons in my neck creak a little, but there’s nothing searing. One for the good guys.
    “Yeah, that’s a rib gone, mate. Shit.”
    Ribs fucked. Gonna cost ya, guv.
    He looks at the top of my chest, eyes all business, appraising. “Lucky I didn’t break your collarbone at the top and all - that really would have fucked things up! I thought that the jacket would have taken more of the blow. Guess it’s momentum, init? Ah well, I s‘pose…” He puts the knife down, and his left hand swings round at speed, grabs my right arm just above the elbow.
    And squeezes.
    The pain doesn’t blossom at this point; it fucking explodes. It atomises, as in bomb, mushroom cloud. It’s a chain reaction of pure fire, and it travels up and down the entire length of my arm, leaving devastation behind it. It is instant: one second I’m making jokes to myself about mechanics; the very next nanosecond, my brain and body are burning. I scream and, as I scream with my eyes screwed shut, the sound ripping through my throat, invisibly, numbly, my stomach rolls and heaves and gives up the battle with nausea. For the first time since I learned to use the potty, I projectile vomit, the entire contents of my stomach violently exiting through my still screaming throat and nose. I feel the heat of its sudden passage even as the heave sets off an explosion in my stomach, this apocalypse of pain, and it flings me in half: throwing me forward, my head bouncing off his chest, pushing him aside, before hitting the floor, still accelerating until the moment of impact, which I register but do not feel at all, like when someone knocks on the other side of the wall you are leaning against, my stomach and arm are my world, and my world is pain, and everything goes grey and then there’s a single wonderful moment when I leave all the pain behind. Then, it goes black.
     
    CHAPTER 5
     
    Bongo drums. Moisture. ‘Sympathy for the Devil.’ Blessed cool water on my forehead. I feel the droplets run down my cheeks, my chin, my chest. Wet cloth. Gentle, soothing. Caring. I’m breathing, quick shallow breaths. My hair is soaking wet and stuck to my head. Sweat or water? My eyes feel glued shut. I’m aware of my chest rising and falling,