Quest For Pain

Hyde Park London 2001
He looked at the children but didn’t see them as they mocked him. He was not in London, but in Baghdad. He was a prisoner still; the suffering would not stop. The uncaring children mocked his walk as they waddled along on the balls of their feet, the tramp oblivious of their cruelty.

His attire hung off his wasting body; his old RAF jacket had seen better days, tied around his waist with a bit of old cord. His straggly unkempt hair and beard were in dire need of a shampoo; the lice had found a new home.
He walked across the park towards his favourite bench, the passers by giving him a wide berth. He savoured the hours he could relax on the bench; it was a welcome change from his cardboard box.

Mark Cochrane looked up to the blue sky and screwed his eyes up at the blinding sun, the same merciless sun that had scorched him in Baghdad. After returning home to London Mark was offered rehabilitation and a measly sum of compensation; is that all he was worth? He attended rehab for a few weeks, before giving up on it, as they had given up on him. What did they know? They weren’t there were they?

His wife Judy had been understanding at first; his three children being a little withdrawn at the change in their father. He used to just sit for hours staring at the wall, night and day.

Judy had often tried to get him to go to bed but often found him bent over, his hands on his feet. Sometimes he stood like this for hours. Judy had contacted the rehabilitation services who conveyed to her that he would no longer cooperate with them, so their hands were tied.

Finally, she turned to a psychiatrist who talked to Mark but he wouldn’t listen, he just looked through the shrink. If Mark spoke a dozen words a day she was lucky. She realised what he must have gone through but after three months decided she’d had enough. Enough of getting up through the night cleaning his waste up as he refused to use the toilet. His condition was deteriorating. Quite often she would catch him sticking pins into his body and even burning himself with matches.

One night she witnessed him pulling his own teeth out with pliers; it's as though he loved pain. The funny thing is, he didn’t seem to feel it. She had even found a leaflet in his pocket from a massage parlour, advertising macho-sadism.

She didn’t know him anymore. She had married Flight Lieutenant Mark Cochrane; a bright eyed handsome man with a wicked sense of humour. The man she was married to now she didn’t know. He refused to eat and his body was wasting away. He eventually gave up washing and his body odour was too much for her to bear. She came to the inevitable decision, she wanted a divorce.

He never contested the divorce; in fact he never said anything. His psychiatrist believed he was insane and thought it best for him to be incarcerated in an asylum. It never happened; Mark just wasn’t there one morning. The police looked for him but abandoned their search after a couple of days. After all, it's what Judie wanted wasn’t it? She soon got over him, in fact the psychiatrist moved in with her shortly afterwards.

Mark frowned as he was joined on the bench by another man, this was his bench and nobody but him could use it.

“Lovely morning isn't it?”

Mark never responded, he bent over and clasped his ankles.
“You into that yoga then?” Asked the man.

Mark rocked back and forth, humming to himself.
“Hey look over there, the bandstands on fire.”

Mark straightened up and watched the flames dancing in rhythm to the approaching sirens.
“I’m George, what’s your name?” He asked offering his grubby hand.

“You don’t say much do you? Come on shake on it; we’re both men of the road aren’t we?”

Mark looked across at the tramp and his eyes glazed as a look of horror transformed his hairy face. The old tramp had a wrinkled old face with no visible teeth; the feature that captured Mark’s attention was the large thick moustache.

He squirmed and put his hands to his face moaning gently; it was all coming back to him.


Syrian border, 1991.
Mark was breathing heavily as he floated down to the desert floor. He checked all around him for the others, there was no sign of them. After the initial explosion, they had watched as fuel was leaking from the left wing of the Tornado, the flames licking at the fuselage. Someone gave the order to eject, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

He heard the loud explosion as the Tornado crashed into the desert, a bright flash illuminating the wilderness, like a giant firework on November 5th. He touched down heavily and rolled over. It was a miracle he wasn’t hurt as he searched the sky again. The reality of the situation hit him like a knife in his back; the others hadn’t made it.
After the bombing of Baghdad they were heading back to base in Muharraq in Bahrain.

He dug aggressively at the ground; the parachute was his concern. He stopped; in the distance through the heat haze he watched the contorted view of the sand clouds. He discarded his parachute and ran for one of the dunes; the sand clouds meant vehicles and he didn’t expect the British.

He lay prone on the ground, daring not to chance a look as he heard the foreign voices. Two minutes passed and he heard the click in his left ear and a strange order.
“English,” he said.

The Iraqi soldier was joined by others. There were more shouting of orders and he put his hands on his head. He never saw the first blow of the rifle butt; he heard only the crack and felt the blood oozing into his eyes as the soldiers kicked him until he blacked out.

Mark was taken to Al Rasid intelligence headquarters in Iraq. As he awoke the only sound to be heard in his damp bleak cell was the dripping of an unmaintained rusty pipe. The beads of perspiration trickled down his bloody face, stinging him as they sought out the numerous cuts and sores.

He swatted at the flies as he looked around the squalor of his prison. A concrete cell, dark and stifling. An old wooden stool, a flea ridden mattress, and a hole in the ground was the only features in his cell; apart from the picture of Saddam Hussein hanging on the wall.

He heard the approaching steps and the rattling of the keys in the lock. Three soldiers entered the room; they all looked similar with their thick black moustaches and black berets.

“Stand up please,” said the officer in the centre.” I am Colonel Al Hakim; this is Lieutenant Al Sadir, and Sergeant Med Barzani. You’re in a prison in Baghdad, and your conduct will decide how you’re to be treated. If you cooperate, you'll no doubt live to see your family again. If you choose not to cooperate? Well let’s hope it doesn’t come to that eh?”

He lit a cigarette as he paced the cell; the strange smelling tobacco was not pleasant. He stopped pacing and faced Mark.
“Well let’s start with your name shall we?”

“Mark Cochrane, 172382 Flight Lieutenant Mark Cochrane.”

“Splendid, and your squadron?”

“Flight Lieutenant Mark Cochrane, 172382.”

The Colonel laughed loudly and nodded to the burly Sergeant. He slapped Mark twice across his face powerfully.
“Now come Lieutenant, enough of this stiff upper lip nonsense. I know how proud you British are; I studied at Cambridge in 1980. Beautiful country but so arrogant. Now, if you don’t tell me what I want to know, it’ll be most unpleasant for you, believe me. Sergeant Med Barzani is skilled in what he does.”

He took a long draw on his cigarette.
“Now, where are you based?”

“Flight Lieut...”

“Enough!”

He shouted something in Arabic and two guards entered the cell and tied Mark to his chair. The Sergeant took out his pistol and hit him twice over the head.
“Wait! Lieutenant, you have one more chance. Your base?”

Mark bowed his head and the Colonel nodded. The Sergeant and the two guards laid into Mark with their fists. When he blacked out they threw water over him. Colonel Al Hakim stooped down to face Mark, his breath reeking of garlic.

“My look at your face; enough of this stupidity. I assume you have a family. A wife and children possibly? Your ignorance is futile; we know where all the air bases are. This is just routine. My superiors just want to clear up the facts. Whether you tell me what I want to know or not, it’ll not affect the outcome of the war. It will only affect you. Now tell me what I want to know and you can see out the remainder of your imprisonment in peace. Clean sheets, water, food. It’s your call Lieutenant.”

Mark looked up and mumbled something through his bloody mouth. His face had swollen beyond recognition. The Colonel put his ear against Mark’s mouth.
“Flight Lieutenant Mar...”

The Colonel grabbed his prisoner by the hair and pulled out his pistol holding it against his temple.
“Now fucking listen asshole; you have ten seconds to speak or I swear I’ll blow your brains out. One, two, three, four, five.”

Mark grinned at his captor.
“Six, seven, eight, nine,”

The Colonel withdrew his pistol.
“Undress him.”

He was untied and dragged from his stool. He was stripped naked and sat back on the stool, his wrists tethered to his ankles.

“Not very comfortable is it? Get used to it my friend; you’ll be in that position for some time. Oh and if you fall off the stool or fall asleep, you’ll be beaten. I’ll be back in a couple of hours, just in case you change your mind.”

Mark was now dehydrated; he could see the boots of his guards as they waited for him to fall from his stool. His back ached oh so badly.

Then he heard the footsteps and the unpleasant odour of the cigarette told him it was the Colonel returning.
“Well Lieutenant, how are you feeling now? Thirsty perhaps? it's so hot today.”

The guards cut his bonds and he sat up straight, grimacing at the pain in his back. The Colonel had a mug of water, which he sipped slowly.
“Would you like a drink Lieutenant?”

He nodded.
“Tell me what I want to know and I’ll grant your wish.”

Mark bowed his head again. The Colonel kicked his stool; Mark crashed to the floor. The Sergeant and the guards kicked and punched him, Mark covering his genitals to protect himself. A pool of blood now formed on the floor, as he was dragged back onto his stool. The Colonel looked towards his groin and smiled. He nodded and Mark had his wrists tied to his ankles yet again.

This continued until morning, the questions and then the beatings. He was given a little water and a handful of rice to keep him alive. He fought the fatigue, knowing what was to come if he fell asleep. He had to go through the indignity of squatting over the hole in the ground whilst the guards grinned at him.

He waited, listened in anticipation for the approaching footsteps, his torturers were returning. Another unbearable dawn had broke; bringing with it’s rising sun, another nail in his coffin. Several flies had taken to his cut and ravaged face.

“Good morning Lieutenant, how are we this morning?” He said something to the Lieutenant Al Sadir. The Sergeant removed his tunic and rolled up his sleeves.
“Are you ready to talk?”

Mark said nothing. He was knocked to the floor and a rag was inserted into his bloody mouth. The guards lay him on his back as the Sergeant hovered over him with a pitcher of water. He poured the water into the rag and Mark panicked, trying to kick out with his restrained legs. He felt a hand around his testicles squeezing them roughly. He gagged as the water vapour took effect, he felt he was drowning. After a couple of minutes, he was placed back on the stool; his testicles were now black. He was yet again tethered in his usual position.

This continued until nightfall; his only respite being the two hours intervals when they would leave. Three times he fell off his stool as he fought his battle with drowsiness, only to receive a sound beating. He was not allowed to fall unconscious. The water would be there to bring him round.

The darkness brought a cold chill. With no electricity the cell was lit by candlelight. He had been a prisoner now for thirty-six hours and he wasn‘t sure how long he could hold out.

The sound of the returning soldiers filled him with dread. He was again untied and forced to sit up. His eyelids by now were so heavy and he was mumbling to himself. He had lost all coordination.

“Brrr, it’s cold in here. Well Lieutenant; how much longer are you going to keep up with this charade? Please, It gives me no pleasure to see you this way. After all we’re both soldiers in a sense of the word are we not? Now, where is the airbase? Where is the fucking airbase?”

The cell door opened and a long rack was dragged into the room by the guards. Mark was forced onto the floor as his bare feet were put into the rack and locked. The Sergeant beat his feet with a long implement resembling a series of whips. Mark screamed out as whip connected. This went on for about fifteen minutes before they left him again trussed up.

The pain in his back was now unbearable, coupled with his aching groin and his feet, which had been cut to ribbons. He started to weep, softly at first and then loudly, sobbing and mumbling indistinctly.

The guards mocked him and got into a routine of stubbing out their cigarettes on Mark’s naked body. Several times he fell off his stool and received beatings. Later that evening the guards nodded off, sinking to the floor, their backs against the wall. Mark only noticed this because he had fallen off his stool yet again, only this time the guards didn’t beat him. He noticed a scorpion crawling about a foot in front of him. Mark watched through his swollen eyes and tried to make a clicking noise like you would attract a dog, only his mouth was too dry. He whimpered as he tried to summon the scorpion; he welcomed death.

The cell door opened and the Colonel and his entourage entered, yelling at the sleeping guards. The Sergeant crushed the scorpion with his rifle, along with it Mark’s salvation.

“You’re lucky we got here in time Lieutenant, you could’ve been killed,” smiled the Colonel.

Mark was placed back on his stool.
“Well, have you anything to tell me?” He asked lighting a cigarette.
Mark just whimpered.
The Colonel approached and stubbed the cigarette out on Mark’s forehead.
Mark just stared at his tormentor and grinned.
He was knocked to the floor again and beaten.

Another day went by and the Colonel appeared to have softened up. Mark was given a mouthful of water and was told he could have some sleep.
“Sllleep?” Stuttered Mark.

“Yes, sleep.”

The guards helped him onto the mattress; a bed hadn’t ever felt so good. He lay back and sobbed as the candles were extinguished. He heard the cell door shut and shivered on his newly found haven. The cold didn’t bother him so much after his beatings. He closed his eyes and he was on a beach with his wife and children He was sipping an ice-cold beer as the waves lapped at their bare cool feet.

The cell door opened and the soldiers returned and lit the candles. Mark cried loudly as he was dragged back to his stool and tethered.

“Enough sleep for now, five minutes is a start is it not? Now, where is your airbase? Yesterday you told me it was in Syria, is that correct?”

“Yesterday, today, tomorrow, yesterday...”

“Enough; you’ve tested my patience and now I’ve had enough.”

He received the water torture again and over the next few days the visits got less and less. The cruise missiles were getting closer everyday and Mark didn’t seem so important to them.

Mark was allowed some sleep but on waking up he regularly taunted the guards and received beatings, which he now secretly craved. He had been tortured so much, he welcomed the pain, he needed his fix for the day; longing for the beatings like a drug he could not give up. Eventually the guards gave up on their torture of the crazy Englishman; he wasn't even locked up anymore. He was given the freedom of the building so to speak, but was never allowed to go outside. He used to beg the guards to beat him and received verbal abuse for his trouble.

One afternoon, the cruise missiles were close, the bombing was severe. Mark walked on the balls of his feet to the cell entrance to find it unlocked. He struggled to the main door and gazed out. The sudden bright sunlight rendered him sightless as he paused for a moment. He felt the wonderful sensation of a breeze; warm but welcome as it caressed his swollen face. He crossed the burning sand to the well; the numerous flies buzzing around him. People were scurrying past, evading the missiles.

Mark’s slender frame tugged on the rope and pulled the bucket to the summit of the well. He filled the ladle with the refreshing liquid and drank greedily. He giggled like a schoolchild as he poured the water over his scarred body. He sat against the well and cried as he saw the carnage all around. Two days later he was found by a Special Task Force wandering around aimlessly. He had been a prisoner of the Iraqi’s for six weeks.

Mark walked slowly towards the bandstand, the old tramp shuffling after him.
“Hey don’t get too close.”

Mark ignored the pleas of the tramp.

He walked into the fire; his arms outstretched. He looked up and laughed loudly as the flames ignited his rags. The laughter continued even when he fell to his knees; the flames burning his feeble body. He welcomed the ultimate pain.
The police constable turned to the fireman, “Who was he?”
“Oh, only some tramp.”