“Is ’e dead?” A stick was shoved under his chin, his head lifted. Of course, it could not move very far, what with his ears nailed to the board.
Pitman would not open his eyes unless the jailers forced him. Show them life and they might beat him again. Or worse. For all his agony, he was better off as he was.
They removed the stick, only to thrust it hard into his stomach. He could not restrain the groan.
“Not quite dead yet, then.”
“Not long for it mind, I’d say,” added the other jailer. “I said you ’it him too ’ard.”
The first man laughed. “Wozzit matter? Dead of a beating, dead of the plague, he’s still f*****g dead, ain’t ’e?”
“Yeah, but Briggs don’t like to put beatings down on the bill of mortality, you know that. Maybe we should say ’e …”
The voices faded. Only when he was su
