The Bunker Diary

by Kevin Brooks

  ‘Smarter than you.’

  It’s nearly midnight now. I’ve warned Jenny about the lights.

  ‘They go off at twelve,’ I told her. ‘It gets very dark. But don’t worry, they’ll come on again in the morning.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of the dark,’ she said. ‘I like it.’

  She’s sleeping in the bed in my room. I’m going to sleep on the floor. I got some blankets and pillows from the other beds and I’ve made myself a cosy little nest by the door. It reminds me a bit of the street. Blankets, cardboard, doorways.

  Home from home.

  I’m glad Jenny’s not afraid of the dark.

  I wish I wasn’t.

  Wednesday, 1 February

  It’s funny how things turn out. Five months ago I ran away to London to escape from the shittiness of school and the emotional madness of being at home. It wasn’t easy, and I’m still not sure it was the right thing to do, but I did it. I fought and struggled to find what I was looking for, and although I never found it, I finally got used to the freedom of the streets and was beginning to get myself sorted out. And now here I am, stuck in the shittiest place in the world with my emotions being ripped to shreds.

  Funny?

  It’s absolutely hilarious.

  Maybe it’s my karama, as Lugless would say. ‘Tis your furkin’ karama, Linus boy. Yep yep. Indeedy-doo.’ Lugless. Good old Lug. The one-eared fool. I wonder what he’s doing right now. Shuffling along the subway in his dirty old coat, probably. Muttering home-made mantras to himself and guzzling tap water from a cider bottle. Lugless always drinks water from a cider bottle, gallons of the stuff. I asked him once why he did it.

  ‘Say what?’ he said.

  ‘Why do you drink water from a cider bottle? You know it winds up the winos.’

  ‘Wind ’em up. Yep. Yep.’

  ‘Is that why you do it?’

  ‘Do what? Furkin’ diddee.’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Say what?’

  Incoherent happiness.

  Freedom.

  Karma.

  I’ll have to think about that.

  Jenny was already awake when the lights came on this morning. I dragged my head out from under the sheet, looked across the room, and there she was, sitting up in bed staring at me.

  ‘You were dreaming,’ she said.

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Our dog dreams. His legs twitch and he whines.’

  ‘Is that what I was doing?’

  ‘I think you were crying.’

  Great.

  ‘What’s he called?’ I said. ‘Your dog.’

  ‘Woody.’

  ‘Good name.’

  ‘It’s short for Woodbine.’

  She was fully dressed and still wearing my hooded jacket. The hood was up, almost covering her face. She looked like a miniature monk.

  ‘Can I have a bath?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’s no hot water.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I’ll have a cold bath.’

  I haven’t told her about the cameras and the microphones yet. I don’t want to frighten her. I’m frightened enough for both of us. And the thought of him sitting up there watching her in the bathroom, stealing her privacy … God, it makes me feel so sick.

  ‘Let me check first,’ I said to her, getting up. ‘I’ll see if there’s any water. You stay here. I won’t be a minute.’

  I went into the kitchen and turned on the cooker. While the ring was heating up, I ripped a patch of lining from my padded shirt and then fished the broken plastic fork from my pocket. When the ring was glowing red, I held the fork to the element, got it melting, then smeared dabs of molten plastic on the corners of the cloth square. Before they had a chance to cool down, I ran along the corridor, grabbed a chair from one of the rooms, then went into the bathroom. I positioned the chair under the grille, stood on it, then reached up and started to stick the cloth over the camera. The molten plastic was nearly dry now, and it didn’t seem to be sticking too well to the cloth, but I reckoned if I pressed hard enough it might just work.

  I never got the chance.

  Just as I was moving the cloth into position the lights went out, plunging the bathroom into darkness, and a moment later something hot and pungent squirted out from the grille and set fire to my eyes. I don’t know what it was. Gas, liquid … like an aerosol spray. Hot and hissy. It stung like hell. I screamed, dropped the cloth, put my hands to my eyes and fell off the chair.

  I must have hit my head on something, the bath or the sink. I can’t remember.

  I blacked out for a while.

  When I came round the lights were on again and Jenny was leaning over me, dabbing at my eyes with the dampened sleeve of my jacket.

  ‘What happened?’ she said. ‘Are you all right? Your eyes look funny.’

  ‘Funny?’

  ‘They’re all red and puffy.’

  I reached up and felt my head. There was an egg-sized lump just behind my ear. When I touched it, a red-hot knife speared through my skull.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘Just a bit.’

  After that I had to tell her about the microphones and cameras. I didn’t want to, and I didn’t like doing it, but I couldn’t see what else to do. What else could I do? I probably could have stopped her having a bath for a while, I probably could have thought up some excuse, but she’d still be washing, using the lavatory, thinking she was alone when she wasn’t. I can’t watch her all the time. I mean, I’ll work out something to put the cameras out of action, I’m not letting the bastard get away with it. But it’s going to take time. And meanwhile we’ve got our bodily functions to consider.

  I don’t know what to do.

  This place is driving me crazy.

  When I told Jenny about the cameras she didn’t say anything for a while, she just looked up at the grille, then back at me, then up at the grille again.

  ‘He’s watching us from up there?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘All the time?’

  I nodded. ‘Probably.’

  ‘What about … ?’ Her voice was close to tears. ‘What about in here? When I’m … you know?’

  ‘It won’t be for long,’ I said gently. ‘I’ll think of something, I promise.’

  She was quiet for a long time. Staring at the floor, fiddling with the sleeve of my jacket, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. Eventually she looked up at me and said, ‘He’s a bad man, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s bad.’

  She nodded slowly and looked up at the ceiling. ‘You’re a bad man, Mister. A very bad man.’

  12.30 p.m.

  Well, what do you know? Jenny’s idea worked. The food idea, the note. It actually worked. When the lift came down at nine o’clock, there was a carrier bag on the floor, and when we opened it up we found almost everything we’d asked him for: a loaf of sliced white bread, a packet of cheese, two apples, two Mars bars, two packets of crisps, a bottle of milk, a packet of tea bags, a bar of soap, two towels, two toothbrushes, and a tube of toothpaste.

  ‘He didn’t answer your question,’ Jenny said. ‘He didn’t tell us what he wants.’

  ‘Who cares?’ I said, smiling at her. ‘Let’s eat.’

  We lugged the stuff out of the lift, put the towels and things in the bathroom, then got stuck into the food. Cheese sandwiches and crisps and Mars bars. I’ve never tasted anything so good in my life.

  ‘Don’t you want your apple?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘I’m allergic to fruit,’ I told her. ‘You can have it.’<
br />
  ‘Thanks.’ She took a huge bite and started chewing. ‘What happens if you eat fruit. Do you get a rash or something?’

  ‘My head swells up.’

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Honestly,’ I said. ‘My head swells up, my eyes start bulging, and the skin starts peeling off my face.’

  She grinned. ‘You’re making it up.’

  I reached for the apple. ‘Give me that and I’ll show you.’

  She laughed and snatched it away. ‘No! I don’t want to see you with a swelled-up head.’

  I puffed my cheeks and pulled a face.

  She burped.

  I laughed.

  Just for now, things are all right.

  We don’t have a kettle or saucepans, and we don’t have a hot tap, so we’re having to make tea with cold water. It’s not brilliant, but it’s better than nothing.

  We’ve just finished writing another note.

  Kettle.

  Saucepans.

  Torch/candles.

  Bread.

  Butter.

  Cheese.

  Ham.

  Milk.

  Orange juice.

  Cornflakes.

  Bananas.

  Chocolate.

  Soup.

  Crisps.

  Chicken.

  Fish fingers.

  Carrots.

  Beans.

  Spaghetti Hoops.

  Radio.

  Television.

  Mobile phone.

  I added the last three items just for the hell of it.

  Jenny insisted on writing Thank you at the bottom of the note.

  When she wasn’t looking, I added my own postscript: Whatever it takes, Mister, whatever it takes.

  Later.

  Today seems to have passed really quickly. The hours have just floated by. I suppose it’s being with Jenny that does it. I’m used to being on my own, and I like it. I like being alone. I’m happy with myself. I’ve always thought that if I got marooned on a desert island or stuck in solitary confinement or something, I’d be OK. I’d manage. I could cope on my own. And I did, didn’t I? I spent a while down here on my own. I didn’t like it, but that wasn’t because I was alone. Alone had nothing to do with it. I didn’t like it because there’s nothing to like down here, simple as that. So, yeah, I can cope on my own. But I have to admit it’s pretty good to have someone else around. Someone to talk to, someone to react with. It makes me feel better.

  It doesn’t make things any less crap, of course. Or less scary. Or less anything, really. But it’s all right.

  It’s just gone 9 p.m. now. The lift has gone up.

  Jenny’s reading the bible.

  I’m sitting in my nest, talking to you, to me, to you …

  Now there’s a thought. Who are you?

  Who am I talking to?

  I don’t know.

  I have no one in mind for you. I know you’re somewhere, but right now you’re nowhere, and I’m talking to myself.

  I have to think about the cameras.

  Midnight, lights out.

  Thursday, 2 February

  This morning the lift came down with most of the stuff we’d asked for. No torch or candles (and obviously no radio, TV, or mobile phone), but we got the kettle, an aluminium saucepan – both brand new – and all the food and drink we’d asked for, except the chicken. I don’t know what that means. Nothing, probably. There was also a new plastic fork to replace the one I chopped up and melted.

  The kettle is one of those old-fashioned whistling things that you boil up on the cooker. There aren’t any electric sockets in here. The cooker and the fridge are bolted to the floor, so I can’t tell how they’re connected. I expect the cables are threaded through the wall. I’ll have to look into that. There’s a lot of things I need to look into. Like how to get out of here, how to sort out the cameras, how to keep things from getting too manky.

  The smell, for instance.

  Things are starting to stink a bit. We’ve both been washing fairly regularly, but it doesn’t matter how often you wash if you wear the same clothes all the time. You can’t help smelling bad. And anyway, with the cameras watching us, it’s not easy to feel good about stripping off to have a good wash. The rest of it is bad enough. Jenny won’t go to the lavatory unless the lights are out. I don’t know how she manages. I just try to ignore the cameras. Ignore him. Pretend he’s not there. No cameras, no one watching. Close your eyes, imagine you’re somewhere else, believe it.

  Believe it, that’s the thing. Believe your own lies.

  The smell of unwashed bodies isn’t very nice, but I don’t mind it too much. I’m used to it. I always kept myself pretty clean on the streets, but a lot of them don’t bother. I don’t think Lugless ever washed. It’s understandable. So you smell a bit, so what? Everyone smells. It’s no big deal. And once your body odour reaches a certain level it doesn’t really get any worse anyway. So why bother trying to keep clean? What do you get out of it? Not much. I only made the effort because, for some reason, when I look dirty I look really dirty. Nasty-dirty, like something that’s crawled out from under a rock. My hair is quite long, and if I don’t give it a brush now and then, or at least run my fingers through it, it mats up into ratty old ropes and makes me look like a mad person. And if I don’t wash, my skin gets kind of greyish, which gives me the sickly look of a junkie. I don’t particularly mind looking like a mad junkie, but it doesn’t help when I’m busking. People don’t mind giving money to a sweet-looking homeless kid, but when they see a wild-haired loony on the street they tend to assume he’s going to blow the cash on crack or heroin or something, and to them that’s bad. That’s wrong. W-R-O-N-G. It’s bad enough begging for fags and booze, but drugs? Oh, no. I’m not giving my money to a drug addict.

  Take Windsor Jack, for example. Windsor’s not that handsome, kind of beaky-nosed and mean-looking, and he’s only got one leg. Well, one and a half legs, actually. He fell asleep one night when he was mashed out of his head, slept for twenty-eight hours with his leg all twisted up under his body, and when he woke up it was dead, useless, no blood. Lost it from the knee down. Anyway, Windsor just sits on the street all day holding out his hand. He doesn’t say anything, no cardboard sign, nothing. Just sits there showing off his stump and holding out his hand, hoping for sympathy cash. But he never gets much because he looks so mean and ugly, and he’s always off his head. Staring eyes, blank face, zombified. He might as well have DRUG ADDICT tattooed on his forehead. Someone gave him a sandwich once. A sniffy old lady in a beige raincoat. I was busking nearby and I saw her lean down and place a pre-packed sandwich in his hand. She told him to lay off the drugs and get some food inside him. Windsor stared at the sandwich like it was a dog turd. Then, as the old lady walked off, he looked up and chucked it at the back of her head.

  Later.

  Things have changed. They changed at noon. Jenny was in the kitchen eating a bowl of cornflakes, and I was sitting at the table staring at the grille on the ceiling, trying to work out how to kill the cameras without getting a face full of poison. Everything was quiet. Everything was normal. Everything was routine. There’s always a routine, wherever you are. You soon get used to it. Lights on at eight, lift down at nine. Lift up again at nine in the evening, lights off at twelve. Long hours of doing nothing. Waiting, thinking, sitting around, lying down, standing up, walking in circles. I don’t like it, but I’m getting used to it, and once you’re used to something it never feels quite so bad.

  So there I was, sitting at the table, staring at the ceiling
, deep in thought, thinking of plots and plans, hats, masks, shields, covers, when all at once the lift door closed – tkk-kshhh-mmm – and the lift whirred into action.

  Nnnnnnnn …

  I looked at the clock.

  Twelve o’clock?

  The lift doesn’t go up at twelve o’clock.

  Not routine.

  Not good.

  Jenny came out of the kitchen wiping milk from her chin. ‘What’s that noise?’

  ‘The lift.’

  She glanced instinctively at the clock. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I got up from the table, went over to the lift door, and listened. The humming had stopped. The lift had reached the top.

  I turned to Jenny. ‘Get back in the kitchen.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it, please.’

  ‘Why? What’s happening?’

  ‘I don’t know. Please, just get back in the kitchen.’

  From above I heard the sound of the lift starting up again – g-dung, g-dunk, clunk, click, nnnnnnnnn …

  Jenny’s eyes grew frightened.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I told her. ‘It’s probably nothing. Just wait in the kitchen while I see what’s happening. Shut the door, OK? I’ll call you out in a minute.’

  She hesitated, staring at the lift door.

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  She backed into the kitchen and shut the door. I turned to face the lift. It whirred down and g-dunked to a halt. My heart was beating hard now and my hands were sweating. I wiped them on my shirt and took a deep breath. The lift door opened – mmm-kshhh-tkk …

  There were two people inside. A woman in the wheelchair and a man slumped on the floor with his feet bound and his hands tied behind his back. The woman was unconscious. She’d been drugged, just like me and Jenny. I could smell the stuff on her breath – bitter, sweet, horrible. Her make-up was all smudged and a dribble of sick had dried on her mouth. The man was awake, but he didn’t look too good. His mouth was tied with a bloodstained gag, his nose was bleeding, and his left eye was swollen shut. The right eye stared furiously at me.