Authors: Matthew Reeve
A week after
the events down The Cheeky Half (which had concluded three pints after the girl
with the red dress incident), Tony was leaving yet another job interview. This
one as a sales assistant for a bathroom store. The interview had been similar
to the previous. He had managed to enhance the preconceived notions of his
sports and music degree to be an advantage within the hi-tempo world of bathroom
retail and when asked the equivalent of which animal would best describe you
question - this one regarding which vehicle would best describe you - he had
managed to ramble off a lengthy answer as to how being a Honda VTR1000 was the
only option. Something about being fast, nimble and flexible. He was convinced
the outcome would be the usual ‘close but not what we were looking for’ reply,
which would suit him fine. The idea of selling carbon fibre washers and a
length of hose to an irate plumber made the international world of fin-ants a
heavenly option for employment.
He left
Walter's Water Supplies and headed to the nearby bus stop which offered shelter
to the threat of rain. He had seen the dark clouds massing from within the
bathroom shop. It was an ominous sign that the sun had been swallowed by these
clouds just as the interview had started. ‘Thanks for coming, please take a
seat,’ the man Tony assumed was Walter had said - and then darkness fell.
He stood
staring at the row of shops across the road. Cars drove by at high speeds,
criss-crossing his vision, some with their lights on early for 4.30 in the
afternoon. He watched people of varying ages, sex, and race, come and go from
sight. Was this man one of his repeat projections? Was this girl a double that
was oblivious to what was going on? He was convinced that some of the people he
had been seeing were aware that something was wrong (such as the kid in the
play area), but most didn’t (like the girl in the red dress). He didn’t know
who he pitied more. He landed on pitying himself. It seemed more his problem
than theirs; not the attitude a Honda VTR1000 would have had - or a crocodile.
If he walked up to the woman crossing the road to his left and pushed her in
the shoulder, what would the results be? Would he push through nothing as if
she were a ghost? Most likely his experiments would result in a slap - at the
very least a confused expression and eyes that pleaded for him not to hurt her.
A bus pulled
into the stop from which Tony stepped back. An elderly couple made their way
onto it, flashing their passes like a police badge. It pulled away leaving Tony
to watch as more and more people passed, none with any evidence of being one of
his visions, which Tony took as a sign that maybe things were getting better.
He had put off telling Emma and there had been nothing since the girl in the
red dress. He had assured himself that there was no need to go to the doctors,
convinced that the worst had passed.
The Ford Fiesta
pulled into the stop, its booming bass went from muted thumping to complete
attack as he opened the door.
‘What the hell
is this,’ he said as he got into the passenger’s seat, gesturing to the radio.
Its display flashed an animated blue light which pulsed almost in time with the
beat. Probably more for effect than accuracy.
‘I’m driver, my
music,’ said Emma. ‘Them’s the rules.’
‘Them's the
rules? But when I’m driving you tell me it’s the passenger who gets to choose.’
‘In this car,
it’s driver’s preference. You’re free to walk.’
Tony forced a
smile and nodded his head in time to the music as if he could think of nothing
better than to listen to the electric bombardment of a drum machine. Although
only twenty-two he didn’t want Emma armed with any more ammunition about how he
was getting old. And she was only two years younger.
‘How was it
then?’ asked Emma. ‘That’s all I seem to be asking you at the moment.’
‘And it’s all I
seem to be answering. The usual. Don’t think they’ll be calling back. I just
wish I knew what I was supposed to do.’
‘For a job?’
‘In general. I
have a feeling that working in water-pipe retail isn’t the way forward. Not
what I was destined to do.’
‘You could
become a professional job seeker?’
‘If only it
paid well. I certainly have the experience.’
They were
heading back to Tony's. He continued to gaze at almost everyone he passed. The
music almost seemed to be calming, as if it were a physical barrier blocking
out all the things he didn’t want to see. Perhaps a more calming form of music
would have relaxed him into seeing something; whatever was playing now most
definitely could not put you in a hypnotic state.
‘Fancy a
cuppa?’
‘No time,’ said
Emma. ‘Popping round Trevor’s before work for a quickie.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘A quick cuppa.
I’m a lady; I don’t undertake the acts going on in your mind right now.’
‘The two of you
having a cuppa was all I had in my mind.’
‘I’m sure. So
how was the other night down the pub? Simon and Andy still...Simon and
Andy-like?’
‘Same as ever,
I think that’s a good thing. I know you’re not their biggest fans.’
‘Andy’s ok,
Simon just - does he still do that spitting in the pint glass thing?’
‘I’m afraid so.
After all the alcohol-pops he was drinking it became some kind of multicoloured
slop. There was one weird thing about last night though.’
Emma nodded and
even turned down the music slightly.
‘Simon didn’t
go into one of his stories that ended up with him having sex.’
‘I am amazed,’
she said, and cranked the music up again. ‘So, did you get any action in a pub
full of old men?’
‘It’s not just
old men that frequent The Cheeky Half, although the lack of TV and free jukebox
is admittedly scaring off most of our generation. Saying that, there was one
girl who stood out.’
‘You're making
me jealous now.’
‘That’s not the
plan I assure you. No she...stood out.’
‘Details.’
‘That’s it
really. Just making it clear that not only old men visit that pub. It’s a
classy place.’
Tony pulled out
a pack of CDs from the glove compartment. Its black fabric casing fell open to
unveil a fan of copied discs, each labeled in thick black marker pen. Every one
abbreviated to a language he assumed only Emma could decipher: MOS 1, GAR 2, TT
4, smeared and scrawled along the surfaces. None tempted him enough to put one
on, if of course Emma was willing. He placed the CD folder onto the dashboard
of the car.
As they pulled
up outside Tony’s flat, rain began to hit the windscreen. Emma turned the music
down to a bearable level; it seemed she cared more for Tony’s neighbours than
for his ears.
‘Hallelujah, I
can hear,’ he said as the car came to a halt and Emma flicked on the windscreen
wipers. His ears actually had a dull ringing in them. He owed it to them to
rest for the remainder of the day. ‘Sure I can’t tempt you to that cuppa?’
‘Thanks but,
places to be and people to see. Definitely soon.’ They hugged over the top of
the handbrake as Tony patted her gently on the back. A near awkward gesture he
always felt obliged to undertake.
The rain
gradually began to fall heavier. He exited the car and with one final muttered
goodbye, slammed the door. As it closed he could see Emma saying something but
with the door shut, rain falling, and the beats slowly rising within, he
couldn’t make it out. It clearly wasn’t important as she waved and drove off
into the oncoming storm.
‘The reason I
am doing this is to highlight that we do have a little humanity. We’re not the
bad guys. There are no bad guys.’
John stood
staring at a blank grey door. It was locked with visible bolts, stoppers and
additional sensors in order to stop any unwanted entrants - or exits. He
listened as Bartley spoke of the reasoning behind this gesture and whilst he
knew he should be listening, from the brief snatches he caught it was only
additional ramblings around a truth he was never expecting to hear.
‘We’re still debating
what exactly you need to know.’ They had their reasons; John just wasn't to be
told them. All he cared for was this door opening and what life lay beyond.
They had escorted him from his room in
a much less brutal fashion than the way he had entered it. He had been allowed
escorted walks around the complex which consisted of an endless corridor
flanked by rows of nondescript doors. He had passed this current one many times
and not given it much thought. They all looked identical, unlabelled and bolted.
They could have led to the outside, to offices, or further corridors for all
John knew.
It was rarely
Bartley who escorted him. An ever-changing array of nameless people followed.
Three had initially led and flanked him after giving in to his desire for
exercise. It had been three months trapped in the room, with no sign of peace
between him and his captors, before they had gradually come round to treating
him like a human being. The three regular escorts had soon been reduced to two
and then to one. Often they came not dressed in their suits but in tracksuits,
fully prepared for John’s weekly run. They knew he liked to keep fit and were
now prepared.
Each lap of the
complex, only seeing the same circular corridor, became his life. He would
sleep and eat in his room with his run being the only thing to look forward to.
One of the few items he was allowed was a stopwatch with which he would time
his runs, and then attempt to beat the time. He needed goals, and this was all
he had.
The people he
ran with (or walked when he needed a quiet stroll with his thoughts) routinely
changed. He had been told a few names - Jane, Robert, Sam - only first names,
but something told him they were made up for his benefit anyway. There was
definitely an emphasis on keeping the face of this organisation hidden, which
is what he now believed it to be. It was probably government funded as well.
John had worked long enough in the upper echelons of big business to know where
most corporations topped up their budgets from. The sensation that all the
people he met were doing a job was strong - it needed some kind of funding and
guidance - they were not some rogue band of kidnappers. There was some
semblance of community and authority; an authority headed by Bartley. Again, a
name he assumed was made up but nothing re-enforced this. It was probably John
wanting it to be made up so as to force a divide between himself and them
rather than the other way around.
Bartley was
certainly the one he had seen the most; the one who sat with him listening to
all John’s questions, them both knowing that no answers would be returned.
There was something ageless about him. He was probably in his mid-fifties, but
perhaps it was the complete and constant look of anguish on his face that had
aged him. That, coupled with the fact John liked his room dark, meant he only
ever saw him in the dim room or in the dull corridors. Bartley would just watch
John pass, expecting something to occur - John constantly praying that it
would.
Today it had
been Bartley plus two nameless others who had come to his room. It was a day
Bartley had promised was approaching but it wasn’t until he entered the room,
with the others waiting outside, that the exact nature of this particular day
became apparent.
‘Are you ready
John?’
He had been
sitting on the bed, staring up at the small barred window that looked down at
him each night like a square moon.
‘What am I
supposed to say to that? Am I ready? For what?’
Bartley came a
little closer, still giving John space. He knew that this was John’s room and
that he, Bartley, was a guest. ‘I promised you once that I would see what I
could do. Today we will show you as far as we can. Please, put some shoes on
and follow me.’
They had left
him whilst he threw on some shoes and a jumper - the closest thing to hand was
a tracksuit top that still smelt of sweat from his last run. Appearance had no
meaning in this place. His stubble was half an inch long which made his weekly
shave pathetically something to look forward to. He was able to stare into the
eyes of a bearded and bedraggled man and watch him change into a bedraggled
clean-shaven one. This was a highlight.
He had
tentatively pushed the holding cell’s door that so often was locked. It swung
open. The two followers fell into view, each looking more on edge than normal,
checking their watches and glancing up the corridor. The door closed and
Bartley, who held his arm out, indicated for John to lead the way.
‘Where are we
going?’ he said as he led the three men forward, allowing his eyes to adapt to
the fluorescent lighting. ‘Another loop?’
‘Do you know
what day it is today?’
‘Very funny. I
gave up caring about that 229 days into my capture.’ He could sense the cringe
Bartley was no doubt giving at the use of this word. The thought managed to
break a smile onto John’s lips - any little dig at these bastards.
‘Today I will
show you that life goes on. And we hope to give you some semblance of reality
to your situation. It has been exactly one year to the day since you arrived
here.’