8

Snail's fingers were steel bars thrust into his muscles. As the man carried him like a weightless doll down the corridor to the theaters, he bent his head forward and whispered into Tom's ear. 'My daddy used to whup me - my daddy used to near take the skin off my back - oh, how my daddy whupped me - ' he made a coarse oily noise Tom realized a second later was a chuckle. Then he put his lips on Tom's ear. ' - and I didn't have skin near as white as yours.' He bellowed with laughter.

Tom kicked backward and hit Snail's legs with his heels. The troll responded by shaking him hard enough to break his neck.

'Play pretty, now,' Snail said, setting him down outside the door to the little theater. The brass plaque still read:

Wood Green Empire

27 August, 1924

Collins opened the door and Snail hauled Tom in.

One whole wall was gone. The two theaters were joined into a single massive space. Mr. Peet was up at the back of the pitched seats, looking at his picture in the mural.

'Hey, this is pretty good,' he called down to Collins. 'That guy looks just like me.' He sounded almost childishly, egotistically pleased.

'Are you an idiot?' Collins barked. 'Get away from there.'

Mr. Peet looked surly and insulted, then lounged down the bank of steps.

'Take him up to the back,' Collins said. 'Once we get started, I want him to be able to see. And turn the lights off.'

'Hey, you're not really —?' Tom began, but Snail slapped him, stinging a whole side of his face. 'Used to whup me real good,' he said, grinning. 'Damn near ventilated me.' Like Seed, he too was missing some teeth. He jerked Tom across the smaller stage and into the larger space. The overhead spots died, and only faint amber light from the stage showed Tom the rows of empty seats. Snail pulled him forward and up.

'What's going to happen to me?' Tom asked.

'I just work here,' Snail said. 'But what do you think Root's doing to your buddy?' Tom hesitated, and Snail said, 'Don't try any of that crazy stuff. You do, and I pull your legs off.'

That crazy stuff-Snail meant levitating. But that area in him was lost anyhow. He was too frightened to find that key. They reached the last row of seats. Crucified? He remembered the dream from long ago, the vulture hopping forward and rending his hands with its yellow beak.

A wooden frame in the shape of a large X had been screwed to the wall. It had a temporary, provisional look, the look of something thrown up in a hurry, easily dismantled after it had been used. From the center of the X hung a leather cinch. On the carpet beneath it lay two long nails and a wooden mallet.

'He can't really do that,' Tom said.

'As long as he don't do it to me, he can,' Snail said.

'Stop talking and pick him up,' Collins ordered. 'He'll fight, so get a good grip.'

Tom jumped sideways and tried to run back down the stairs, but Thorn put an arm around his chest and yanked him backwards. He kicked, and Thorn hit him on the top of his head with his knuckles.

'Get a grip on him, I said.' Collins bent over to pick up the nails. When he touched them, they shimmered on the carpet, and when they were in his hands, they glowed a pale silver, as if lit from within.

Pease grabbed a leg with each doughy hand. Snail took his wrists, and he could not move: Tom strained against their touch, but Thorn increased the pressure on his chest and drove all the breath out of him. Mr. Peet wandered off and sat down on the aisle seat, where he twisted around to watch. Thorn's sour breath washed directly over Tom's face.

'Observe the nails,' Collins said. Now he held the mallet in his right hand. The long nails had turned a molten golden-red, and seemed to pulse in the magician's hand.

'Good trick,' said Thorn.

'You stink,' Tom said, and Thorn rapped him on the head again; a sharp jarring pain. With only half his strength, Thorn could break his skull.

'This boy is a magician. We need something extra to hold him.' Collins held the nails in front of Tom's eyes. 'Understand? You'll never coax these out of the boards. I think you'll be content to wait for the performance.' He turned to Pease and Snail. 'Hoist him up.'

The three trolls carried Tom to the frame, Thorn walking backward. 'Keep a hold on those arms,' Thorn said, and freed his arms so that he could grip Tom's waist with both hands. 'Come along with me - I'll belt him in.' He lifted Tom, and pinned him with one hand stuck hard into his belly while he worked the cinch. Tom wriggled, but Thorn's hand pushed his stomach against his spine.

The belt closed around his belly. The men sprang away. He was firmly held and four feet above the ground. The clasp bit at his skin; the old pistol chewed the small of his back.

Collins held the nails up again. They shone out bands of color, like prisms. 'All right. We will proceed. Thorn, kneel down and hold his feet against the wall.' Thorn bent down and rammed Tom's heels against the green.

'Snail, you hold the right arm. Pease, you take the left. Palm out against the brace.'

They seized his arms and pulled them out, stretching them until his elbows threatened to turn inside out. Tom howled, 'You can't! You can't!'

'That is your opinion,' Collins said, and approached, one shining nail between thumb and forefinger, the mallet already lifted in his right hand.

'NOOO!' Tom bellowed. Pease flattened his fingers back, exposing the palm.

'The pain won't be as bad as you anticipate,' Collins said, and pressed the point of the first nail into Tom's left palm.

Tom clamped his eyes shut and fought against everything - the men holding him spread-eagled, the buckle sawing at his skin.

Collins hammered the mallet against the head of the nail. There was a grunt immediately before the impact: and then incredible pain, as if not just the nail but the mallet itself had thrust itself through his palm. He screamed, and heard the scream in a disembodied, hallucinatory way: it was as visible as a flag.

'You ain't paying us enough,' he heard Pease say.

'Now you, Snail. Get those fingers back.'

Tom's right fingers uncurled by themselves. My hands, he thought. Will I ever…?

The pinprick of the nail's point: the muffled grunt of effort of concentration; the rape of his right hand.

My hands! They seemed the size of his whole body, and burning. He saw his own screams rippling away from him.

'Not too much blood,' Collins said with satisfaction.

Tom went out of his body and floated among the bright screams.