Trust

The ropes had been scraping at Conrad’s wrists for hours now. The flesh there was torn to something tender, every fidget urging another hiss of pain. He had done his best not to bite his tongue through it. He didn’t need another bout of hurt to interrupt his focus. Right. Focus.

​

       He had to focus. 

 

       He was in a basement, though his watering eyes hardly revealed much. Blinking cleared his lens, as he took it all in. There was a brick wall ahead of him. He knew by the draft along his neck that the exit was to his back. It was the side facing his bound hands. His arms were growing stiff now, circulation becoming a lost cause. 

 

       He had to focus.

 

       The bricks were old. He couldn’t tell the date off the top of his head, but the place smelled like a brewery. An old pub then, or a cellar. There were a few barrels in a corner, just close enough to read. A slip of their white cloth covering revealed faded letters. It wasn’t a brand he recognized. Family owned then.

It wasn’t a notable one. Unimportant. 

 

       There were no sharp instruments. No possible means of escape. The door behind him was it. He counted the stairs on the way down, when he was blindfolded. Twelve. Twelve steps and a door and an exit, and he’d be free.

 

       Where the Hell would I go?

 

       He didn’t even know if he was in his home city. He didn’t know how long the drive was to get here, or how long he had been here. The hours bled together like watered down paint, sheets of muddy color with no definition. It was him. The ropes. The chair. The brick wall. The booze.

 

       He tensed at the sound of the heavy door swinging open. Cold air met his back with a rush. Once it closed, footsteps cascaded down the staircase. Twelve. Twelve steps from the door, from the exit, from freedom. Conrad looked to the man in front of him. 

 

       He knew him. Of course, Conrad knew him, because months ago they went out for a pint after a bit of work. No, right. Time again. It had been years.

 

       “Connie,” The blond grinned, “Haven’t seen you in a while, eh?”

 

       Conrad didn’t respond. The button up and suspenders in front of him was something to focus on. His old friend got promoted. It was different than the cheap leather and cotton he associated with him. Still, the dark eyes were something else. The same. Just as unnerving.

 

       They were black pearls embedded in pale skin, a pair with a sharp nose in between. The smile was plastered on, threatening to crumble into menace at a moment’s notice. It contrasted to his own, the light blue that simmered with quiet anger. A part of him was begging for his glasses, the in-and-out focus of his vision near impossible to manage. 

 

       “What’s wrong, cat’s got your tongue?”

 

       “You know what’s wrong.” Conrad huffed. “Can’t say I’m comfortable here.”

 

       “Should I pull up a stool? Let you rest your feet? They must be tired from all the running.”

 

       Conrad bit his lip, averting his gaze.

 

       “We had it all, Connie. Everything you could want. Money! Comfort!”

 

       “A name to live under?” He countered, scoffing a laugh. “I don’t know about you Evren, but I stay in England for democracy, not the autocracy.” 

​

       “I don’t want to be here anymore than you do, Mate.” He pushed a barrel over to take a seat. “I’d love to just get home, catch a game before bed, and pretend things are alright, but they aren’t.”

 

       “You should let me go.” Conrad shrugged. “Manchester’s on tonight anyway. At least it was last time I—”

 

       “You betrayed us Conrad! You took our money, our resources, and did what? Go on to hide in some small city? Hide behind some credentials and a lesson plan? You can’t keep running forever, you can’t!”

 

       Conrad had gone to protest, but a knife was pressed to his neck. A raised finger demanded silence. The words he wanted to say wouldn’t leave his lips, the chill of the metal taunting him. 

 

       “You robbed banks, you’ve killed plenty, you’ve even hijacked a few cars here and there just to get by. Connie, you’re just like the rest of us, and you can’t possibly deny that. No matter your clothes, job, even if you get yourself a nice bird on your arm, you’re still us. Just as worthy of the death sentence. Just as much a sinner. You can’t run from this. And you never will.” The knife flicked upward, nicking his neck. “Honestly, it’s proper selfishness you even tried. You can’t rewrite your past, Conrad. No one can.”

 

       “And what about you, yeah?” He grimaced. 

 

       “You’re lucky I don’t kill you now—”

 

       “There have been plenty of attacks on me. Almost succeeded. You weren’t holding a gun, Evren.” He sat back in his chair, the knife slowly retreating. “Ev, just...let me go. I have a life, kids to get back to, a future—”

 

       “No, no, the job has to get done—”

 

       “No.” Conrad shook his head. “You can leave. With me. I can find you a place.”

 

       “Connie.”

 

       “I’m not asking you to trust me. I’m asking you to work with me.”

 

       There was a silence. It lasted too long. It was the sort of uneasy quiet that grazed your ribcage, and jabbed at your stomach. Almost sickening. He flinched as Evren swiveled around him. The knife came down again, only this time it cut at the ropes binding Conrad’s wrists.

 

       “I still don’t trust you.”

 

       “I can live with that.”