Soccer suspense novel "The Churning" - Chapter 2

Time has passed.

I am waiting.

Is this how quadriplegic people feel? Bound to a wheelchair? Forced to let the world around them just happen, because they can’t do a goddamned thing about it?

Boy, that would suck. This sucks. This shouldn’t be me. I’m Arman, the Wizard. Son of Seattle, son of Tehran. I’m the American who terrorizes Premier League keepers. Who are they that they think they can do this to me!?

What do they want, a ransom? It’s my money—they can’t have it. It’s mine.

My chest is burning with anger now. Why can’t I break these chains? I fucking hate this. They have me. Whoever they are, they can do whatever they want.

Dammit. They took my phone and clothes. Probably burned those. I would. I feel like I’m in sweats, now. Am I still wearing my silver chain? Did they take that from me, too? No, I think I’ve still got it on. The cool slickness on my collarbone.

But here I am.

My sides are slick with sweat under a shirt, and it isn’t because I’m hot. Am I really that scared?

Who is it you think you are again, Arman? A thug who’s used to seeing machine guns? You’re a soccer star, a little whelp who got lucky playing a game.

Shut up, Kamran.

Someone’s coming. My spine rattles. I am not allowed to be terrified. Not in front of them. Not in front of Fat Man.

I’m thirsty. I want a huge drink of water, but I’d take a sip.

No, I’ve got to pee.

“Hey, I’ve got to piss,” I say reflexively.

Footsteps, closer.

“What’s your problem, mate? You say you’ve gotta tinkle?”

I hate Fat Man.

“Yes, you fat bastard! I’ve gotta piss!”

Oh. I probably shouldn’t have done that.

Pain, my jaw. Fat Man’s thick fingers pinch my cheeks in against my teeth again. Oh fuck, that hurts!

“Well, well, you fuckin’ wanker. Got a bit of a problem with that mouth, don’t ya? Good. ’Tha’s gonna make our time together so much more enjoyable.”

The hand turns my face one way, then the other.

“You see,” he growls, “nobody ever told me we were handing you back in one piece. Got it?”

“I’m pthorry, ookay? I jus gah-ah go!”

The hand releases my face. I sense him leaning close. His breath reeks.

“You? The great wizard Hessabi? Sorry? Not bloody likely. Just a scared little shit now, aren’t ya?”

Relief for my cheeks. The dam’s nearly breaking below. I almost slip, my knees banging.

“Come on, man! I need a toilet!”

He waits. He’s still close to me. If I wasn’t in such a bad place, I’d try my damnedest to head-butt him. Right on the nose—that would make him sorry. Or reach up and grab his throat, maybe twist it out. But my hands are tied behind my back. I can do nothing. The tightness around my chest holds me back. Now I can’t sit up straight—that would make it harder to hold it in. And there’s a chain or hook or something to keep the handcuffs from twisting very far. This is medieval. Who does this?

Dribbles of sweat—or pee—are making my crotch wet. I can’t help it.

“Boy, this is fun. First time for me, too, Wiz. Squirm, squirm, squirm. Shall I tickle you?”

And he could. And there isn’t a thing I could do about it.

Wetter now. Help me!

“Here’s the deal, mate. You gotta pee? Better just let nature take its course.”

“What?” I want to scream at him, but I’m afraid I’ll lose control.

I sense him moving away, feet shuffle. I think he’s moving around behind me.

Pain! A cannonball strikes my back. I grunt and cry out.

And it’s out. Horrible, horrible relief. I can’t hold it anymore.

My pant legs soak with warmth. I let it out. Down my thighs, my knee pits, my calves. A lot of urine. I can’t stop it.

I’ve pissed myself. I’m not four years old, but I just peed myself.

Now I want to collapse, I’m so tired.

Arman Hessabi wants to cry, just like a little boy.

I can’t.

If not for the painful tightness biting into my arms, I think I’d pitch forward. I’m bound to this chair at the arms.

I’m soaked. There’s sniggering behind me.

“Bee-yew-taful! Nice work, Wizard. Though I think you missed a spot or two.”

White needles prickle my closed eyes. I am going to kill this man!

“Dee!” A new voice.

Who was that? Did he call the Fat Man “Dee?”

“The fuck are you doing?” British accent. Clear voice.

Could this be the ringleader? I don’t think it’s the man from earlier.

That makes three. Three of them here.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Huck! We are fine.”

A hand—Fat Man’s—claps the back of my head. Footsteps move past me. Maybe Fat Man is leaving.

The one man called him Dee, and he called that man Huck. Or was it Bee, like Bluto? Bluto from that cartoon? Is Bluto a real name? Are there Italian Blutos?

Thank God, I think they’re leaving me alone.

Fuck, now I’m soaked. This is nasty!

Arman, you just peed yourself!

I know, Brother. Shut up. Leave me the fuck alone!

How did this happen?

You heard him, Kamran. This fat bastard didn’t give me a choice. He didn’t care. He’s a disgusting pig. He hit me in the back.

Are you surprised? Whatever you have done to enrage these people, it’s severe.

Yeah, I got that.

Kamran’s being supportive, like always. Great. Always the smarter one, always wiser. And me always the inferior one, stuck in his fucking shadow. Brilliant. Well, he can’t hope to kick Little Brother this time. I’ve already been nabbed, tied-up and humiliated.

That’s all right, I’ll be fine. I’ve scored in three World Cup games. I don’t need Kamran to tell me he’s proud of me. Who the hell needs him?

Kamran and his perfect fucking all-American lifestyle. His perfect fucking ranch house on Mercer Island, where he commutes nine minutes to his perfect fucking clinic. I could’ve been a gastroenterologist, too—working on stomachs and guts. Mom and Dad said I’m smart enough. That could be me, running someone’s bowel, looking for a perforation. That could be my gorgeous blue Lexus parked in the reserved spot, my bright yellow Porsche convertible next to the minivan in the driveway. Then Soheila—the most beautiful woman on Earth—would come out to the car in a sundress and could be my wife stopping traffic. My two little monsters with unruly hair and black-olive eyes could torment the sitter.

Ardavan and Cyrus. That’s a laugh. God, what would they think of Uncle Arman now? Hey, kids. Guess what happened to me over the weekend!

Or Soheila? Shit, Kamran would be laughing his ass off if he knew I’ve pissed myself.

You make five times as much as me; you deserve it, you little shit. Should’ve picked a job where you use that brain, if you had one. Fix people up, play golf at swanky conferences in Maui. Instead, you’re kicking a ball!

Grow up, Kamran. Deal with it.

How the hell would he deal with this? How would it have been if I was the doctor and he was the pro footballer paid to take cannon shots at brave keepers?

God, no wonder the friction used to make my mother cry. When we weren’t at each other’s throats, it was like the Cold War. The way it started so early between us, and then just got worse. Mom blames herself for waiting too long. Kamran was almost seven when the little pipsqueak, me, came along. Eventually, I got decent at fighting back. But, really, what can a four-year-old do against an eleven-year-old? Grab something he likes, throw it, put his hands up defensively against the onslaught.

My UDub advisor talked to me about Kamran. It was the third or fourth time I’d complained to her about our family issues. She said Kamran had problems with himself as much as he had problems with me. And his problem with me? Ms. Monroe patted my arm and smiled and said, “That you were born.”

Where is Kamran now, when I need him? The clinic, dealing with someone’s irritable bowel syndrome? Or is he in bloody scrubs, ears tuned to a heart monitor as he works to fix a mess of someone else’s doing?

What time is it back home?

What time is it here?

What does it matter, Little Brother? You’ve pissed yourself.

I don’t need you to remind me, Kamran. I don’t need you for anything.

The warmth from my urine is gone. Now I’m cold. And thirsty. And starving.

* * *

Un-fucking-believable!

I move my legs. They’re wet. I must do it anyway. I pretend there’s a ball between my feet and I need to keep it away from someone. I don’t care if it looks ridiculous—it’s warming me up. Pullbacks and feigns. Make the soccer ball a pinball until you can work it past all those legs. Up over a slide tackle, sprint, and strike.

Keep going, keep going. Ignore the crowd, the ones who hate you for doing your job. The ones who would laugh at you now, if they knew.

Is Steffi laughing somewhere right now, in her sleep? Oh, we had a good time back at UDub, but I bet she’d laugh at me now. Of course, I must be a pathetic sight.

Tied up and handcuffed in some European shithole. Am I still in Europe? I can’t see a goddamned thing. I can’t move. All I can do is dribble an imaginary soccer ball. I can’t really move at all. I pull and squirm and nothing happens. I can’t negotiate with anyone. I’ve been kidnapped. I’m a hostage. And my pants are wet because I’ve pissed all over myself.

I can’t believe this is happening to me. What the hell did I do to deserve this?

I roll my head about. It’s so bizarre under this hood. The fuzziness from earlier has totally cleared. What else can I do?

I can move my hands a little. There’s something awkward about them, about the way they’re sitting with the palms turned out. The cuffs feel weird.

My crotch and legs are wet from pee. God, it reeks. I reek. Like my nephew fighting the potty-training. Though, honestly, I couldn’t have done anything about it. I couldn’t hold it forever.

Fuck you, Fat Man.

Okay, so I can wiggle my hands a little. I can raise them a bit, and I can move my fingers. Why are my hands bound behind my back? Why bother? These cuffs are heavy, made of steel or iron. I don’t think there’s any chance I could break free. They’re a couple inches apart. I think so. Space is so deceptive when you can’t see, when you can only feel. A shred of beef stuck in your teeth feels much larger than it actually is. If you don’t have a toothpick, you work on it all through the drive or the movie. Then you find it’s this tiny little piece.

I got sand in my eye at a beach on the Caspian Sea. Dad and I had gone back to visit some old family, ones who stayed. The tiny shard of gray glass sitting on my finger. At my feet, all that sand. That’s when I grasped what “billions” means. When I understood what “infinity” means. All that sand met by those dark waves. Billions, more. Me, the simple soccer player, imagining that there was a grain of sand for every single person on earth—with plenty to spare.

“One day, I will die, Arman. It is God’s way. We can’t live forever.”

“Yes, Dad.”

“But I will be happy—very happy—if you have a long and successful life when I am gone. Can you do that, Pesaram?”

“Yes. I can.”

My dad wasn’t screwing around that day—I knew it. It scared me to think of him being gone. It kept me up that night in the hotel room. But me? I was twenty-one; I was on my way to being a soccer star. A long and successful life? No problem.