Mr & Mister Danvers: Initiation - 15. EPISODE 14: Q-NET Q

EPISODE 14: Q-NET Q

Back in the car, I was very amused with the back-seat furnishings and features when I discovered the button that makes the partition wall transparent and opaque.

I was a kid pressing it interchangeably to see how the wall altered from a clear, see-through wall to an opaque black.

The highlight of my ride, along with finding a can of Coke in the cooler hidden between the seats, was the switch that raised a 40-inch television in front of the partition wall.

A second button was in front of me, and a seat that served as a second chair for two additional people was launched horizontally.

The footrest with ankle support moved on its own.

There was a lock in the console that closed the sunroof, simulating the sense of being in a movie theatre, and a switch flung the curtains into the side-door windows for optimum seclusion.

It seemed that all I needed was popcorn as I started watching Netflix with surround sound speakers blasting at every turn, resting on a really comfy recliner seat, and drinking my Coke.

In that brief window where I was enjoying myself, I had forgotten my family’s whereabouts.

Then my phone rang.

I answered the call.

"Hello."

"Hello there Greg. I’m glad you’re enjoying your accommodations."

The voice of the woman bellowed from the speakers; I had to lower the volume.

My phone must have automatically synchronised with the car’s Bluetooth, and the outgoing call was featured through the speaker system.

"Where’s my family? I did everything you wanted."

"You’re going there right now. The letter. Hand it over to the driver."

I slipped the envelope and closed off the partition wall.

"The driver knows where my family is?"

"No. Coordinates are sent in real-time. He has no idea where he’s driving you off until the location is sent, so please act classy. By the way, I’m here to inform you that you’ve passed the second test with flying colours."

"Enough with these fucking tests!" I shouted. Whoever’s behind this voice, she’s pissing me off.

"Are you ready for the final test? This test will depend on you."

"What is it?"

"You must find a way to fornicate with the driver. It has to be penetrative sex as long as you do it in the back of the car where your audience can see you."

"Audience?" I said, very surprised. "I’m being watched?"

"Yes."

"What the actual fuck is this? This is horrible and disgusting!"

"All manners of the method are accepted. It doesn’t matter if you drug him, assault him, or if you drag him to the back of the car regardless of his predilection to want it, or not. Conscious or unconscious is accepted."

I was incensed and nauseated by the condition. "You’re talking about rape?"

"Yes. You may rape him if you like, as long as you get the task done. If you accidentally kill him before copulating with him, it doesn’t count. If you do want to kill him after, then it’s your prerogative, and we fully support it."

This task was maniacal and atrocious to the core.

"I, er, I can’t do that. I can’t do this."

I started panicking as my mind was racing to whatever the fuck this was.

Not only was I culpable for going to jail for this, but condemning another person to a life of trauma was pure evil.

"I’m not going to do this. This is insane."

"Besides the driver is a tablet device. Inside the device is a global positioning system locked into your family’s location. The app unlocks by voice command—my voice, to be exact. If you don’t do what we’ve asked you to do, the tablet’s CPU core will explode and the GPS coordinates of where your family is will forever be lost, and you’ll never find them. Do you want that, Greg? Is saving this man worth it over your family? You have an hour to finish this. Time starts now."

My heart was racing as I felt my larynx close; I was running out of breath.

My head was spinning, my hands trembled, and my chest tightened, enough to click the button that opened the partition wall as I hollered at the driver, "Pull up for a second. PULL UP!"

The driver parked the car on the side of an empty alleyway.

I got out and started vomiting at the nearest bin behind a Chinese restaurant.

I was having a panic attack and I deserved it.

The driver rushed out of the vehicle, stood behind me and asked, "Are you alright Greg?"

Hunched forward, tasting stomach juices, half-digested food liquid, and the regurgitated acid that tasted like coke several times processed by my stomach, I looked to my side and studied his face.

Rake thin, smooth hair with patches of grey on the sides and sunken jowls that smile for days, he reminded me of my father, an older version if he didn’t eat or sleep, looking like he’d stepped momentarily out of the sun and stayed there indefinitely.

He seemed hardworking, to the point that his health deteriorated, with several IV drip marks on his wrist.

I would know an addict if I saw one, and he was not that person; he was just exhausted.

It seemed like I was there to add to his burden.

"What’s your name?"

"Charles." He smiled at the friendly gesture.

"I’m sorry Charles. Please forgive me."

Crouching under him, it took me three steps to dive under and suffocate him with my arms.

He passed out quickly.

I looked left and right while I dragged him to the back seat.

A woman passing by called me out.

"What are you doing?" she asked suspiciously.

Curly hair in blue scrubs with a rucksack holding a paper bag with her possible lunch—a bloody nurse.

Why the nurse, of all the worst timing?

With a rueful gleam, I wore the mask of a disconcerted socialite given my vulgar outfit and imitated the poshest accent I could ever summon.

"My driver suddenly dropped on the floor. I have not seen him drink water since this morning. I mean, look at his arm. He has been at the hospital in and out. He must be dehydrated."

"Let me call the emergency hotline," she said, worried.

I immediately stopped her.

"No, I will call them instead. It is better if it is me who will explain his dire circumstances. But I truly thank you for your concern. Truly, I thank you,” I said, distraught at the sight. I pretended to dial 112 and vented my frustration as I fanned myself.

"Yes, I have got a man who passed out on the street. Yes, he is my driver."

I glanced at her smiling to say thanks and closed the door.

And like a switch, my demeanour changed instantly.

It wasn’t even a switch with an on and off button; it was an alacritous response that I had enjoyed that quick performance, and I revelled in donning these masks as if they were a part of me.

I looked at Charles’s body slumped over the seat, and immediately, I started sobbing.

My head fell down while my hands were ready to cover my face, to cover the shame of what I was about to do.

Peering through the pages of my past, this would be a similar incident to why I left the police force.

I was violated.

I was assaulted.

I was raped.

I was in therapy for a year until I couldn’t handle it anymore, and so I left.

That night, while we were in downtown Soho on my day off, I was at a pub with my work partner.

We were partying hard and had a bit of fun relaxing that weekend, drinking several jaegers at the pub, and singing karaoke with another police crew from the Vauxhall precinct.

Slightly knackered, we both walked home, and we happened to catch a disturbance.

Four men were harassing a young man in a dark alley.

More likely, they were robbing him.

I walked up to the men and called them out, even showing them my badge to show that I was an officer.

We had a heated exchange, and being the twat that I was, I tried tackling the four of them.

The difference between me and them was that two were swinging knives, and the other two had guns they waved in my face.

As for my coworker, she was too hammered to say anything.

She just watched.

And by watching, I mean she watched four men stick their cocks inside me forcefully while they covered my mouth as I screamed for help.

They pinned her down to watch me, as they had assumed we were a couple.

She was horrified, and more than that, they scarred her for life.

They let her watch me as, one by one, they took their turns.

They slapped me.

They kicked me.

One of them tried to kiss me, but I bit his tongue, which forced a fist to run over my face.

He stabbed me five times in the back and then laughed with his friends upon seeing blood gushing out of my arse.

She and I were looking at each other eye-to-eye while they stuck their cocks in me, shoving their pricks where they didn’t belong.

And when they all came inside me, wiping their bloodied shafts after spitting on my face and leaving me naked under a bridge, one of them had the bright idea to shove a glass bottle inside me.

My scream was from the fiery bowls of inferno as I felt the force and immediacy of the foreign object harass me and infringe on my basic right to live.

I wanted to die in that moment.

Minutes more, and I would have.

The four culprits ran away, laughing and snorting like it was a game and they were having fun.

I had become their means of relieving themselves.

I had become their past-time, a fun activity—a mere object.

When her inebriation sobered up, my partner called 112, and I was rushed to A&E.

That evening, after 23 hours of surgery, I nearly died.

They had to cut my stomach, reposition certain organs, and patch up the damage caused by the glass shards strewn across my anus.

And I didn’t shit for six months.

I had to wear a colostomy bag alongside the embarrassment of getting pitiful looks at the precinct because I was a police officer who couldn’t do anything when it mattered and who was unable to stand up for himself.

A year later, I quit the uniform.

My partner followed three months later.

We hadn’t spoken since.

Without a father whose tolerance and compassion overcame his tragic situation...

I would have killed myself.

Dad was the iron crutch that pulled me up when I needed all the silence in the world to deal with my situation.

I didn’t speak for three months; he didn’t talk to me on the days I wanted to be alone, which, at the mercy of my sanity, I was prepared to lose sight of—until my child fought all the silences by forcing me to speak up as though nothing had happened.

In the third month of my reclusion, I was sitting alone for hours in the confines of my room, staring blankly at a wall.

Brady came inside and asked me, "If you don’t want to talk, it’s alright, daddy. I’ll sit here with you if that's okay. Don’t mind me."

He grabbed his books, pulled up a chair on the bed, and began studying his lesson.

I turned my head to my boy, and he smiled, then continued reading his book.

This child needs a father, said the voice in my head that kept shouting loudly and eagerly.

So I stood up and said, "What do you want for lunch?"

The boy was surprised and answered with a hopeful smile, "I just want a peanut butter sandwich, daddy."

I pretended to be back to myself, and eventually I was.

I wasn't prepared for how much more I'd gain by playing along in front of my child.

I didn't feel the desire to shoot myself because he kept me company.

Brady was my real therapy.

Anytime I was with him, I was able to forget the hurt and pain I had experienced at the hands of those bastards.

He was the lone observer who didn't perceive me as having lost a piece of myself or having a part of me die.

From his perspective, I remained the same father—a man who is whole and complete—that I had always been.

"You have ten minutes left," said the voice from the speaker.

I swiped my eyes, and I knew a decision had to be made.

I pulled down my pants and was ready to do the inconceivable.

I wasn’t sure if I had the time left to force myself to do the act.

Whatever thoughts I was having in those seconds when the clock ticked—they were wrong, and surely, they were more than despicable.

"Five minutes left, Greg."

I asked for forgiveness for what I was about to do.

I looked at the back of my unconscious victim and said, "I can’t do this." I screamed and pulled up my trousers.

"I’M NOT DOING THIS! This is wrong. Fucking sick and wrong. I’m not an animal. I’m not."

"Is this your final answer?"

"Yes," I whispered and spoke to my family as though they could hear me. "I’m sorry, sweety, dad. I’m sorry. I’ll find you some other way, but not like this."

"So you’ve made your choice. Step out of the car. Someone will assist to get rid of the body."

"What are you going to do with him? What’s going to happen to me? You’re not gonna kill him are you?"

"That is none of your concern. But I applaud you. You’ve now passed all of our tests."

And then it occurred to me…

What the fuck is going on?