The Bunker Diary (3 page)

8.15 a.m.

Day three.

I haven’t eaten since Saturday.

I’m
starving
.

Why isn’t he feeding me? What’s
the matter with him? Why doesn’t he show himself? Why doesn’t he threaten
me, get tough, tell me to shut up, do as you’re told and you won’t get
hurt … why doesn’t he
do
something?
Any
thing.

Why am I still here?

Where’s Dad?

I’m beginning to think he’s
refused to pay the ransom. That’d be just like Dad. I can just imagine him
thinking it’s all a joke, or a set-up. That I’ve kidnapped myself. Yeah,
that’s it. Mixed-up rich kid with semi-famous father, desperate for attention,
sets up his own kidnapping to put one over on his dad.

Shit.

I’m
so
hungry.

There’s a bible in the bedside
cabinet. Last night I got so bored I picked it up and started leafing through it. Then I
realized that I wasn’t
that
bored, and I put it back in the drawer.

Each room has one. I’ve checked. Bible
in the top drawer, blank notebook and pen in the middle.
This
notebook,
this
pen.
The drawers have locks and there’s a
little key on the top of each cabinet. Six keys, six notebooks, six pens, six rooms, six
plates …

Six?

No, I haven’t worked it out yet.

The notebooks are good quality –
black-leather covers, fresh white pages. Blank pages. Lots of blank pages. I don’t
know why, but that bothers me.

The pen’s a Uni-ball Eye, Micro,
black. Waterproof/fade-proof. Made by the Mitsubishi Pencil Co. Ltd.

Just in case you’re interested.

It’s quarter to nine now.

The lights have been on for forty-five
minutes.

Last night I spent some time sharpening the
broken plastic fork. I only had my fingernails and teeth to work with, but I think I did
a pretty good job. It doesn’t look like much, and I don’t think I could kill
anyone with it, but it’s sharp enough to do some damage.

If I’m right, the lift will come down
in five minutes.

It did. Only this time it wasn’t
empty.

There was a little girl in there.

When I first saw her, my heart iced over
and my brain went numb. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t
speak, couldn’t do anything. It was too much to take in. She was sitting in the
wheelchair, the same wheelchair I’d arrived in, kind of slumped to one side, with
her eyes closed and her mouth half
open. Her hair was all messed up and
knotted, and her clothes were crumpled and covered in dust. Tear stains darkened her
cheeks.

I didn’t know what to do. Didn’t
know what to feel. Didn’t know anything. All I could do was stand there with the
sharpened plastic fork in my hand, staring like an idiot at this poor little girl.

Then my heart grew hot and a rage of
emotions welled up inside me. Anger, pity, fear, panic, hatred, confusion, despair,
sadness, madness. And I wanted to scream and shout and tear the walls down. I wanted to
hit something, hit someone. Hit
him
. How could he
do
this? How could
any
one do this? She’s just a girl, for God’s sake. She’s
just a
little
girl
.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and
let it out slowly.

Think, I told myself.

Think.

I opened my eyes and studied the girl,
looking for signs of life. Her eyes were still closed, her lips not moving.

Breathe … please breathe.

I waited, watching.

After a long ten seconds or so, her head
twitched, she gave a little gulp, and her eyes fluttered open. I shook the paralysis
from my body, hurried over to the lift, and wheeled her out.

Her name’s Jenny Lane. She’s
nine years old. She was on her way to school this morning when a policeman stopped her
in the street and told her that her mum had been in an accident.

‘How did you know he was a
policeman?’ I asked her.

‘He had a uniform and a hat. He showed
me his badge. He said he’d take me to the hospital.’

She started crying again then. She was in a
terrible state. Streaming tears, shocked eyes, shaking like a leaf. She had a slight
graze on her lip, and her knee was cut and bruised. Worst of all, she was breathing
really fast. Short, sharp, gaspy little breaths. It was scary. I felt completely
helpless. I don’t know what you’re supposed to do with little girls in
shock. I just don’t
know
stuff like that.

After I’d got her out of the lift, I
took her to the bathroom and waited outside while she got herself cleaned up. Then I got
her a drink of water and took her back to my room and tried to make her comfortable. It
was the best I could do. Settle her down. Comfort her. Talk to her. Give her a smile.
Ask her if she was all right.

‘Are you all right?’

She sniffed and nodded.

‘Are you hurt?’

She shook her head. ‘My tummy feels
funny.’

‘Did he put a cloth over your
mouth?’

She nodded again.

‘What about your knee?’

‘I knocked it. It’s all
right.’

‘Did he … ?’

‘What?’

‘Did he … ?’ I coughed
to cover my embarrassment. ‘Did he touch you or anything?’

‘No.’ She wiped her nose.
‘Where is he?’

‘I don’t know. Upstairs
somewhere.’

‘What’s upstairs?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What’s he called?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is he coming down here?’

‘I don’t think so.’

She looked around. ‘What is this
place? Do you live here?’

‘No, the man brought me
here.’

‘What for?’

‘I don’t know.’

Don’t know, don’t know,
don’t know … probably not the most comforting answers in the world, but
at least she wasn’t crying any more. Her breathing was beginning to improve
too.

I asked her where she lived.

‘1 Harvey Close,’ she said.

I smiled. ‘Where? What
town?’

‘Moulton.’

‘Moulton in Essex?’

‘Yes.’

I nodded, then nodded again, trying to think
of something else to say. I’m not that good at small talk. I don’t know what
you’re supposed to say to nine-year-old girls.

I said, ‘What time was it when the
policeman stopped you?’

‘About half past seven.’

‘Isn’t that a bit early for
school?’

‘We were going on a trip to the
nucular power station.’

‘Nu
cle
ar.’

‘What?

‘Nothing. Is that why you’re not
wearing school uniform, because you were going on a school trip?’

‘Uh-huh.’

She was wearing a little red jacket, a T-shirt,
jeans, and trainers. There was a picture of a tiger on her T-shirt.

‘What’s your name?’ she
asked me.

‘Linus.’

‘What?’

‘Linus,’ I repeated, as I almost
always have to. ‘Lye-nus.’

‘That’s a funny name.’

I smiled. ‘Yeah, I know.’

‘Is there anything to eat,
Lye-nus?’

‘Not at the moment.’

I looked down at the trainers on her feet.
Newish but cheap. Stuck-on stripes. Frayed laces.

I said, ‘What do your mum and dad do,
Jenny?’

‘Why?’

‘I was just wondering, that’s
all.’

She pulled at some knots in her hair.
‘Dad works at Homebase. He doesn’t like it much.’

‘What about your mum?’

She shrugged. ‘She’s my
mum.’

‘Does she work?’

She shook her head.
‘Nuh-uh.’

‘You’re not rich,
then?’

Her face creased into a frown.
‘Rich?’

‘Forget it. Here.’ I passed her
my hooded jacket. The room wasn’t cold, but she was starting to shiver again and
her face was really pale. ‘Put it on, it’ll keep you warm.’

So, no kidnapping then. Not for the money
anyway. He’s not going to get much of a ransom from a guy who works at Homebase,
is he? And besides, if he knows who I am, why bother
kidnapping anyone
else? I mean, you don’t rob a bank and then stop on the way out to break into a
bubblegum machine, do you? Not unless you’re an idiot.

There’s no point. No reason.

No kidnap.

Which means …

What?

I have to get out of here, that’s what
it means.

We
have to get out of here.

The trouble is, I can’t see how.
Everything is solid concrete. The walls, the floor, the ceiling. The only way out is the
lift. But that’s hopeless. When the lift comes down the door stays open. When the
lift goes up the door closes. The door is solid metal. Very thick. And the lift itself
looks indestructible. And even if I could get through the door when the lift is up, what
then? I don’t know what’s behind it. I don’t how high the lift shaft
is. It could be thirty metres of sheer concrete for all I know.

And anyway, he’s watching us.

This afternoon, while Jenny was sleeping, I
had another look round. A
really
good look round. Walking about, checking this,
checking that, poking around, kicking walls, stamping on the floor.

It’s hopeless.

It’s like trying to escape from a
sealed box.

After a while, I sat down at the dining
table and stared at the ceiling. I couldn’t help thinking of him up there.
What’s he doing? Is he sitting down, standing up, walking about? Is he laughing?
Grinning? Picking his nose? What’s he doing? Who is he? What? Who? Why?

Who are you?

What do you want?

What’s your
kick
?

What’s your
thing
?

And it was then, just as all these questions
were floating around in my head, that I suddenly realized what I was staring at. There
was a small circular grille set in the ceiling, directly above the dining table.
I’d been looking at it for the last few minutes, but my eyes hadn’t taken it
in. A small circular grille, about 10 cm in diameter, made of white metal mesh, fixed
flush to the ceiling. I stared hard, making sure I wasn’t imagining it, and then I
looked round and saw more of them. One, two, three, four. Four of them, spread out
evenly along the length of the corridor.

I got up and checked the rest of the
rooms.

The grilles are everywhere. There’s
one in the lift, one in the kitchen, one in the bathroom, one in each of the other
rooms.

I went back and got up on the table for a
closer look.

Each grille is a perfect circle, split in
two. A faint breeze of warmish air comes out of one side, and an equally faint current
is sucked in the other. Ventilation, I suppose.

Heating.

But there’s more.

On either side of the grille there’s a
little hole cut in the mesh. Embedded in each of the holes are two little buggy things.
One is a flat silver disc about the size of a 5p coin, the other is like a small white
bead with a tiny glass eye at the end.

Like this.

Microphone.

Camera.

Shit.

I tried to tear it out. I reached up and
dug my fingers into the grille, trying to wrench it out, but I couldn’t get hold
of anything. The bugs are fixed too tight, and the grille is too strong to break. I
picked at it, studied it, whacked it with the palm of my hand. I whacked it again.
Punched it. Hard. But all that did was rip the skin off my knuckles.

And that’s when I lost it.

Something inside me snapped, and I just
started spitting and screaming at the grille like a lunatic. ‘You
BASTARD
! What do you
want
? Why don’t you show your bastard face,
eh? Why don’t you
do
something?
WHAT DO YOU WANT?
’

He didn’t answer me.

11.30 p.m.

I’ve calmed down a bit now. I’ve
thought calm thoughts and silenced the rage in my head. Underneath it all, I’m
still dead scared and I’m still really angry and I still feel like screaming my
heart out, but I’m not on my own any more. I can’t just
do
what
I
want to do. Ranting and raving about things might make me feel a little
bit better, but it isn’t going to do Jenny any good. She’s got enough on her
plate as it is. The last thing she needs is a madman for company.

She cried for a long time when she woke up
this afternoon, big snotty tears that streamed down her face and soaked into her
clothes. Then she curled up into a ball and lay on the floor for a while, muttering
quietly to herself. I didn’t like that, it worried me. I felt better when she
started crying again. This time the sobbing wasn’t quite so snotty and wet, but it
was a lot wilder. She called out for her mum and dad, she shook and shivered, she
wailed, she bawled.

I did my best.

I sat with her.

Watched over her.

She sobbed, she howled, her body heaved, and
I just sat with her, crying a few silent tears myself.

I wish I could have done more to help
her.