The Bunker Diary (10 page)

‘Oh, right,’ I said, pretending
to think about it.

‘Content needs context,’ he
said.

‘Of course it does.’

He squinted at me. ‘Are you taking the
piss?’

‘No, I was just thinking. Maybe we
could ask him for a laptop and then send him an email. Or better still, a text. Ask him
for a mobile phone, ask him for his number, then text him a message. Do you think that
might do it?’

Bird gave me an exasperated look.
‘What’s the matter with you? Can’t you take
anything
seriously?’

‘You started it.’

He sighed and shook his head, tutting at me
like I was an idiot child. I don’t blame him really. It was a pretty childish
thing to say. But I am a child, remember. I’m allowed to say childish things.
It’s my job. And anyway, he
did
start it.

He was sulking now.

I shuffled through the rest of the notebooks
and picked out Fred’s. I wasn’t sure what he meant by
fire
, but the
other idea sounded promising. I wrote down –
Fire’s too dangerous, but work on
the message down the bog idea
 – and then passed the
notebook
around. Anja read it, shrugged, and passed it to Bird. Mr Sulky. I didn’t think
he’d even bother to read it, but to his credit he took the notebook and studied
the message, then wrote something down and passed it back to me.

I glanced at him for a moment, feeling a
tiny bit guilty, then I looked at the page. He’d written –
We’d
need a waterproof container, something that floats, small plastic bottle?

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Good
idea. Let’s think about it.’

Finally I passed my idea around, the one
about hiding in the lift.

I said, ‘I haven’t figured out
all the details yet, but I’m working on it.’

I got a couple of shrugs and a raised
eyebrow from Fred.

And that was about it.

I ought to feel more hopeful, I suppose. At
least we’re talking, thinking, doing
something
. We’re beginning to
work together, and that’s good. Because, when you get right down to it, it’s
us against him. The Man Upstairs. Mister Crazy. The Man With No Name. Call him what you
like. Whoever He is, He holds all the cards. He’s got us right where He wants us.
All we can do is try to make the most of what little we’ve got.

And what
have
we got?

Well, I suppose we’ve got the
advantage of numbers. We’re five and He’s one. Five brains against one. And,
if I’m right, it should soon be six. Six against one. Even better. Six brains
against one. It’s not much, I know. I mean, they’re pretty mushy brains, and
they’re probably going to get even mushier if we stay here much longer. But five
or six mushy brains working together is a lot better than five or six mushy brains
working on their own.
Do you see what I mean? It’s like an ant
thing. You know, like the difference between an individual ant and an ant colony. An ant
on its own can’t do much, but when it gets together with all its ant-colleagues it
can do almost anything. It can build cities, capture slaves and create underground
gardens. It can rampage through the jungle eating everything in sight. That’s what
we have to do, only on a slightly smaller scale.

This evening was a start. It wasn’t
the greatest of starts, but at least it was a start. We’re getting there.
We’re improving our chances of getting out. Not a lot, I admit. I mean,
we’re not ready for any rampaging just yet. But not a lot is a lot better than
nothing.

So, yeah, I ought to be feeling more
hopeful. I ought to be feeling more optimistic, more positive.

That’s how I
ought
to be
feeling.

The trouble is, deep down, I can’t
help feeling it’s all a waste of time.

I was right, number six arrived this
morning.

It was my turn to meet the lift. I was
standing in the corridor with a bag of rubbish in my hand, pondering my idea about
escaping in the lift, when down it came, opened up, and there he was.

His name’s Russell Lansing.

I know him. At least, I know who he is.
I’ve seen his photograph in the newspapers and on the back of his book,
Time
and Stuff: Natural Philosophy in the 21st Century.

He was in the wheelchair, tied and gagged,
but he was awake. His eyes were open. Scared, red and watery, but open. I wheeled him
out and gently peeled the tape from his mouth.

‘Thank you,’ he gasped.
‘Where am I?’

I started untying him. As I worked on the
knots I explained as much as I could – the five of us, the lift, the food, the cameras
and microphones. It all sounded pretty weird. It’s strange how you can get used to
something and not realize how peculiar it is until you start talking about it. I know
I’ve been talking to you for the last few weeks, but that’s different.
That’s silent talking. This was
real
talking.

Russell listened patiently as I told him the
story, not saying anything until I’d finished.

Then all he said was, ‘I
see.’

Very calm.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked
him.

He nodded, rubbing his wrists and looking
around. ‘Drugged, I believe. No physical injuries.’ He looked at me.
‘How long have you been here?’

‘Nearly two weeks.’

‘Two
weeks
?’

‘Seems a lot longer.’

‘I’ll bet it does.’ He
rubbed his eyes. ‘Is there a bathroom I can use? I must have been sitting in this
chair for about four hours.’

‘Yeah. Can you walk?’

‘I think so.’

He tried getting out of the chair, but
halfway up he winced painfully and closed his eyes, then sat back down again and took a
couple of deep breaths.

‘Perhaps not,’ he said.

‘No problem.’

I wheeled him down the corridor to the
bathroom. As we went, his eyes never stopped moving, studying the walls, the ceiling,
the doors, the floor. Everything.

‘What’s behind these
doors?’ he asked.

‘Rooms.’

‘Is that where the others
are?’

‘They’ll be sleeping,’ I
told him. ‘We tend to stay in bed a lot. They’ll be up soon for
breakfast.’

‘Breakfast?’

‘We’re very
civilized.’

He smiled.

I said, ‘You’re Russell Lansing,
aren’t you?’

‘I am indeed.’

‘I’m Linus Weems.’

‘Weems?’

I nodded. ‘I’ve read your
book.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘I really liked it.’

‘Thank you.’

I didn’t know what else to say. I felt
a bit embarrassed, to tell you the truth. A bit sappy, like a little kid talking to his
favourite pop star. I was glad the others weren’t around. Despite the
embarrassment it was a nice little moment, and I wanted it all to myself. I’d
found him. I knew who he was. I’d read his book. He was
mine
.

‘Here we are,’ I said.
‘This is the bathroom. Can you make it from here?’

‘I think so.’

I helped him out of the chair.

‘There’s a sheet on the back of
the door,’ I said. ‘To hide yourself from the camera.’

‘There’s a camera in the
bathroom
?’

I nodded. ‘If you slip the sheet over
your head he can’t see you.’

‘Right. Well, thank you.’

I watched him walk slowly into the bathroom
and shut the door. He’s old, nearly seventy I’d guess. His black skin is
dull and grey and his hair is all brittle and white. I remember reading somewhere that
he does a lot of work with AIDS charities, that he has the disease himself, that
he’s dying.

I can believe that.

Over breakfast he told us all what had
happened.

‘It was my own fault,’ he said.
‘I met a fellow in a bar. I let him buy me a few drinks, and then I rather
foolishly agreed to accompany him home. I think I did anyway. I was rather befuddled at
the time.’

Fred laughed. ‘Befuddled?’

Russell held his hand out, palm upwards. He
raised it slowly, paused, then turned it over and brought it down flat on the kitchen
table.

Fred grinned.

I wasn’t sure what he was grinning at,
but I joined him anyway. It felt like the right thing to do. It felt good. Then I looked
round the table at the others and my smile faded. Anja and Bird had been giving Russell
funny looks ever since I’d introduced him. I didn’t know why, and I
didn’t much care. But the way they were looking at each other now, shaking their
heads and exchanging disapproving glances, it really bugged me for some reason.

‘Something on your mind?’ I
asked Bird.

He looked at me, sniffed, then turned to
Russell. ‘This man you met in the bar,’ he said coldly. ‘Did you get a
close look at him?’

‘Close enough.’

‘What was he like?’

Russell gave it some thought. After a while
he said,
‘Charming … manipulative … persuasive … intelligent … endearingly
bland. In hindsight, a classic psychopath.’

‘Description?’

‘Middle-aged, dark hair, about five
feet ten inches tall. Well built, but not overly muscular. Strong hands. Clean-shaven.
Lightly tinted spectacles. Charcoal suit, white shirt, burgundy
tie. Black slip-on shoes, burgundy socks.’

Bird looked sceptical. ‘You remember
all that?’

‘I’m a physicist. I’m
trained to observe.’

‘Oh, right,’ Bird scoffed.
‘
That’s
what you were doing, was it? Hanging round bars
observing
other men.’

Russell looked at him. ‘I’m gay,
Mr Bird. Is that a problem?’

‘No … no, of course not. I
was just saying …’

Fred let out a snort of laughter.
‘Jesus! You’re black
and
you’re bent?’

It wasn’t the most subtle way of
putting it, and I was half-expecting Russell to lose his temper and storm off or
something, but he didn’t seem to mind at all. He just looked at Fred and smiled.
Fred smiled back at him. Then, without a word, Russell put his hand to his eye, lowered
his head, and dug around with his fingers. After a moment he looked up again and held
out his hand. Where his eye had been there was now just an empty socket, and in his hand
there was a smooth glass bauble.

‘Not only black and bent, my
friend,’ he said to Fred, ‘but one-eyed to boot.’

Late evening.

Mixed emotions.

I like Russell. I like his calm, his
insight, his sadness. I like his humour. I like the way he accepts things. It gives us
balance. It gives
me
balance. I’m not sure why. It’s probably got
something to do with him being smart. He’s a very clever man, Russell. He knows
stuff. And I like that. I like it because I’m smart too, and we all like things
that remind us of ourselves. I’m not saying I’m a genius or anything. I
mean, I don’t know as much
as Russell, obviously. In fact,
there’s plenty of stuff I don’t know the first thing about. But I’m
well educated. I’ve been taught how to think. So even if I don’t know the
facts about something I can usually work out how to think about it. And that’s
what being smart is – knowing how to think. Facts are all well and good, but they
don’t mean anything if you don’t know what to do with them.

Anyway, I’m smart. That’s all
I’m saying. I feel an affinity with Russell because I’m smart. It’s no
big deal. I’m not bragging or anything. It’s just what I am. We’re all
something. I’m smart. Fred’s strong. Jenny’s kind. Anja’s
beautiful. Bird’s … fat. We all have our qualities, and none of them are
any better or worse than the others. They’re just different.

At this evening’s meeting Russell
didn’t have a lot to say. None of us did. There were no new ideas, no suggestions,
no eurekas. Bird seemed preoccupied with something and hardly said a word. Anja had a
headache and retired to her room. Even Fred seemed unnaturally quiet. The only one who
had anything constructive to say was Jenny. When I showed her the escape ideas from last
night she quickly looked over the pages, moving her lips as she read, then she jabbed
her finger at my distraction idea and said, ‘That one. The rest are
useless.’

I couldn’t help smiling. ‘What
about Fred’s?’

‘Which one’s that?’

I showed her the idea about putting a
message down the lavatory.

She read it again, looked at Fred, then
giggled.

‘What?’ he said.
‘It’s a
good
idea.’

‘It won’t work –’ she
started to say.

‘Shh,’ I said. ‘Write it
down. Here.’ I passed her a pen and a piece of paper.

She bent low to the table and shielded the
page with her arm. Her tongue poked out from her lips as she wrote:
What will the
mesage say? We don’t know anything. We don’t know where we are or
anything. Whats the point of writing a mesage when we don’t know what to
write?

I showed it to the others.

We looked at each other.

‘Shit,’ said Fred.
‘She’s right.’

Jenny smiled proudly.

After the meeting Russell said he’d
like a word with me. I made some coffee and took it into his room. He’s in room
six. As I was shutting the door Bird passed by, heading down the corridor towards his
room, number four.