The Bunker Diary

by Kevin Brooks

  ‘Unh!’ he muttered through the gag. ‘Furngehissoh! Nunhh!’

  I was pretty shocked, but nowhere near as stunned as I’d been when Jenny arrived. I’m not sure why. They were adults, I suppose. It’s different with adults, isn’t it? When you see an adult in trouble you still feel bad, but not half as bad as when you see a child in trouble. It’s the helplessness, I suppose. It gets to you. Whacks you in the heart. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’ve just got something against adults.

  Whatever.

  I wasn’t paralysed this time.

  I wheeled the woman out first, then called Jenny and went back for the man. He was big, too heavy to drag, so I started on the ropes round his wrists. They were knotted tight.

  Jenny came over and cautiously approached the woman.

  ‘Get some water,’ I told her.

  ‘Who is she?’ she said, looking at the woman. Then she looked at the man. ‘And who’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. Get some water, please.’

  She went back into the kitchen, and I carried on struggling with the ropes. The man was kicking his feet.

  ‘Nunh uhh uhh …’

  ‘Keep still,’ I told him.

  ‘Norighfurnge … nunh …’

  ‘Keep still, for Christ’s sake.’

  After a couple of minutes I finally got the knots untied. The man whipped his arms free and yanked the gag from his mouth.

  ‘Fuck!’ he spluttered, shaking some life into his hands. ‘Why didn’t you take the fucking gag off first? Shit! I couldn’t fucking breathe, man!’

  He’s big. A very big man. Tall. Solid. Hard as nails. Greasy hands, short dusty hair. Work jeans, boots, a faded sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off.

  He sat up and started to untie his feet, tugging at the ropes and looking around with his one good eye.

  ‘What is this shit?’ he said. ‘Who are you? Where’s the fucking wanker –?’

  ‘Hey,’ I said.

  He stopped talking and glared at me.

  ‘I’m on your side,’ I told him. ‘I’m trying to help. Why don’t you just shut up a minute and let me deal with the lady. All right?’

  He gave me a hard look. Very hard. He sniffed a dribble of blood up his nose and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he looked over at the woman in the wheelchair. She was beginning to come round now, groaning and mumbling and holding her head. Jenny was standing beside her with a cup of water in her hand, staring wide-eyed at me and the big man. Scared to death.

  The big man said, ‘Shit,’ and went back to untying his feet.

  I went over to the woman. Jenny was helping her to drink some water, holding the cup to her lips. As I approached, the woman pushed the cup away, lurched forward in the wheelchair, and threw up on the floor.

  The big man’s called Fred.

  ‘Fred what?’ I asked him.

  ‘Just Fred.’

  Right.

  The woman’s name is Anja. Pronounced Anya, like Tanya without the T. Anja Mason. She’s one of those confident women who always get what they want. Late twenties, well-spoken, honey-blonde hair, a fine nose, sculpted mouth, perfect teeth, silver necklace round her neck. Dressed in a sheer white top, short black skirt, tights, and high heels.

  My dad would love her.

  She says she’s ‘in property’, whatever that means. Selling houses, I suppose. That’s how he got her. She’d made an appointment to show a Mr Fowles around a luxury ground-floor flat in a secluded avenue in West London. Ten o’clock this morning. She turned up alone. Parked her car. Mr Fowles was waiting for her on the front step. He smiled, said good morning. She opened the door and showed him in. He seemed pleasant enough.

  ‘Did he say anything else to you?’ I asked her.

  She thought about it. ‘No, not really. Not that I can recall.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  A hint of annoyance crept into her voice. ‘I can’t remember, OK?’

  She showed him the hallway, she told us, showed him the living room, then took him into the kitchen. While she was pointing out the parquet flooring, he got her with the chloroform. She says she knows it was chloroform because her husband works ‘in chemicals’.

  At this, Fred laughed. ‘You what?’

  ‘What?’ said Anja.

  ‘How do you know it was chloroform?’

  ‘My husband,’ she repeated. ‘He’s a company manager with a multinational chemical company.’

  ‘What, in the fucking chloroform department?’

  She gave him an icy look. ‘What’s your problem?’

  Fred didn’t answer, just grinned hard and scratched his arm.

  I know what his problem is. He’s a junkie, a heroin addict. I can tell from the way he walks, the look in his eyes, the way he holds himself. The track marks on his arms.

  ‘How long has it been?’ I asked him.

  He sniffed and jerked his head. ‘What?’

  I mimed injecting a needle.

  He shrugged and rubbed his arm again. ‘This morning, couple of hours before the van hit me.’

  He says he’s a panel-beater at a place in Camden Town, and I’m sure he is, but I don’t think that’s the whole story. I know a thief when I see one. Thief, dealer, hard man, crook. You name it, he’ll probably do it. He’s that kind of man. Last night, he says, he was out and about somewhere in Essex. Doesn’t remember where, he says. Got lost, he says. Someone stole his car.

  Yeah, right.

  At eleven o’clock this morning he was still stuck in the middle of nowhere, trying to find his way back to London. Hitching, looking for a railway station, trying to find a car to steal. He was walking along a narrow country lane when he heard a van. He turned round to stick his thumb out, the van drove into him, caught him a glancing blow and knocked him into a ditch.

  ‘Hurt like fuck,’ he said, rubbing his shoulder. ‘I thought it was broke. And then, when I start crawling out of the ditch, all covered in leaves and mud and shit, someone whacks me across the head with an iron bar.’ As an afterthought, he smiled at Anja and said, ‘I know it was an iron bar because may waife works in an iron-bar factory.’

  Anja pouted. ‘Very funny.’

  It was pretty funny.

  Fred went on. ‘That was it. Out cold. I think he gave me another couple of whacks just to make sure, then he must have got me in the van and tied me up. Next thing I know I’m being bundled into a fucking lift.’ He shook his head. ‘He’s a strong bastard, I’ll give him that.’

  He rubbed his arm again and wiped sweat from his brow.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked him.

  ‘Starting to feel it.’

  ‘Bad?’

  ‘It will be.’

  ‘Do you want anything?’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Not much. Tea, water …’

  ‘Tea?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Any aspirin?’

  ‘I’ve asked for some.’

  It was gone ten o’clock now, so the lift had already gone up for the night. I’d put in a fresh shopping list. Food, aspirins, bandages, juice, cigarettes for Anja and Fred.

  It was at this point that Anja suddenly recognized Jenny. ‘Oh, God!’ she gasped, staring at her. ‘You’re her, aren’t you? You’re that girl from the news, the one that went missing? Oh, shit … what is this? What the hell’s going on here?’

  I told her and Fred as much as I know, which isn’t much. I told them how Jenny and me were captured. I told them about the lift, and how we have to ask for things. And I told them about the lights, the cameras, the microphones.<
br />
  When Anja realized what the cameras meant, she almost had a fit.

  ‘He’s what?’

  ‘Watching us,’ I said. ‘Listening.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She stared at me. ‘Are you seriously telling me that everywhere I go this dirty old man is watching me?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Everywhere?’

  ‘Yes,’ I sighed.

  ‘Oh, my God! That’s disgusting. I’m not having that. You have to do something. You have to get me out of here.’

  ‘Me?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t care who,’ she whined. ‘I just want to get out of here. Now.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘This is impossible. I have commitments … I have things to do.’ She started crying. ‘I have to get out of here.’

  I turned to Fred.

  ‘So,’ he sniffed. ‘No aspirins till tomorrow?’

  ‘Nine o’clock in the morning, if he agrees.’

  ‘No cigarettes till then either?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Later again.

  Now that Fred and Anja are here, everything feels different, and I’m not sure I like it. I know there was nothing to like about anything before they were here, but I suppose I’d kind of got used to things as they were – just me and Jenny, doing our best to look after each other.

  But now … ?

  I don’t know.

  I feel sort of edgy, unsettled.

  Out of place.

  I just don’t like it.

  I’m tired.

  It’s been a long day.

  I’ll write some more tomorrow.

  Friday, 3 February

  Last night it occurred to me that Jenny might feel more comfortable sleeping in Anja’s room rather than sharing with me. But when I mentioned it to her, she got all snotty about it.

  ‘I thought you liked me?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I thought we were friends?’

  ‘We are. It’s just …’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘Well, you’re a girl.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘And I’m a boy.’

  ‘So?’

  I sighed. ‘All I meant was –’

  ‘I don’t like Anja.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She’s scary. She sticks her nose up.’

  ‘That’s just her way. It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘I don’t like her.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s all right.’

  ‘Why don’t you sleep in her room then?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  Jenny grinned.

  And that was that.

  There were no more surprises when the lift came down this morning, just a carrier bag full of food. No aspirins, no bandages, no cigarettes. Me and Jenny put the food away and started making breakfast, then Anja came in. No make-up, bleary eyes, crumpled clothes. She looked tired and fragile, and somehow that made her seem more approachable.

  Or so I thought.

  ‘Morning,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Good morning.’

  She just glared at me. ‘Any cigarettes?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Shit!’ she hissed. ‘Shit!’

  She turned round and stomped out.

  I looked at Jenny.

  Jenny shrugged.

  We got on with breakfast, eating silently, like a couple of kids whose mum is in a really bad mood. When Anja stomped back in again to get a drink of water, muttering more curses under her breath, I sneaked a glance across the table at Jenny and saw her looking back at me with a smug glint in her eye, as if to say, ‘See? What did I tell you? She’s scary.’

  Just so you know, this is where everyone is:

  Notice anything odd about that?

  Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but apart from me and Jenny it seems like we’re all trying to keep as far away from each other as possible. Which is kind of strange, don’t you think? I mean, here we all are, stuck together in this hellish situation, desperate to find a way out, and we’re behaving like strangers on a bus.

  Or maybe it’s not so strange after all?

  It’s just what people do, I suppose.

  After breakfast I went to see how Fred was doing. There was no answer when I knocked on his door. I knocked again and put my ear to the door. Nothing. I called out his name, knocked again, then opened the door and looked in. He was lying on the bed, curled up into a ball, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. The bedclothes were all thrown on the floor, and I could see scars and tattoos all over his body, needle tracks on his arms and legs. He’s got a lot of scars. He had the pillow clamped over his head and he was sweating like mad and moaning like a baby.

  Heroin withdrawal.

  Even with his legs all scrunched up, the bed’s far too small for him. He must be at least six feet four.

  ‘How’s it going?’ I asked him.

  ‘Unnnhh,’ he replied.

  ‘Do you want some tea?’

  ‘Unh.’

  ‘We didn’t get any aspirins. You’ll have to stick it out.’

  ‘Funnhh …’

  ‘I’ll bring you some tea.’

  On the way back to the kitchen, I passed Anja’s room. The door was open and I could see her sitting on the bed with her legs crossed and her arms held tightly across her chest.

  Jenny’s right about her, she is scary. Beautiful but scary. She has that overbearing confidence that comes from wealth and good looks.

  ‘Do you want something to eat?’ I asked her.

  Her head snapped round at the sound of my voice. ‘What?’

  ‘Would you like anything to eat?’

  ‘How long are we going to be here?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  She flicked at her hair. ‘It’s unbearable.’ She started jiggling her foot up and down, then turned and looked at me. A good long look, up and down, checking me out like I was piece of furniture or something. Finally she blinked, wrinkled her nose, and looked away.

  ‘What are the police doing about Jenny?’ I asked her.

  ‘What?’

  I sighed. ‘What are they saying on the news about Jenny?’

  ‘Jenny who?’

  I glared at her.

  ‘Oh, right,’ she said. ‘The girl …’ She shrugged. ‘I think there was one of those appeals on TV, you know, a press conference, with her parents and everything. And there’s been lots of coverage about her in the newspapers, lots of photographs, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Do the police have any leads?’

  Anja shrugged again. ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Did they say they had any leads?’

  ‘I haven’t really been following the story, to be honest. I’m very busy at the moment. I don’t have time to –’

  ‘You need to get your head out of your arse,’ I said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You heard me. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, for Christ’s sake.’

  She gave me a nasty look.

  ‘You could try talking to Jenny for a start,’ I went on. ‘I know it’s hard, but pretend you’ve got a heart.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t have to listen to this.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘What do you know anyway?’ she sneered. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Old enough.’

  That was supposed to sound cool, but it probably didn’t.

  Her foot was jiggling around at sixty miles an hour.

  I said, ‘
You should have gone while it was dark.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The lavatory. I told you last night. You should have gone while it was dark.’

  She uncrossed her legs, brushed at her knee, flicked at something on her shoe, then recrossed her legs.

  I said, ‘Do you want me to go with you?’

  ‘What? God, no!’

  ‘I won’t look. I’ll stand in front of you, facing away, so the camera won’t see anything.’

  Her mouth tightened. She chewed her lip, stared hard at me, then looked away. The room was quiet.

  I gave it a minute, then turned to leave.

  At the door I heard a little sob. I turned round. Anja’s head was bowed down and her voice was trembling. ‘Why’s he doing this?’ she wept. ‘What have I done? I don’t deserve this. It’s not fair.’

  ‘Fair doesn’t come into it.’

  Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  I said, ‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.’

  The summer before I ran away was a hot one. Long, hot, and tedious. Dad wasn’t home very much, as usual, and I spent most of the school holidays either traipsing around the world with him, staying in hotels and soulless apartments, or – when he got fed up with me cramping his style – staying with various friends and relatives, most of whom I neither knew nor liked. I didn’t actually get to spend any time at home with Dad until the week before I was due back at school. And even then, all we did was argue about stuff all the time. Mostly the same old stuff.

  ‘I don’t see why I have to go to boarding school, Dad. Why can’t I just go to a normal school, a local school?’

  ‘You know why, Linus. We’ve already been through this a million times.’

  ‘Yeah, but –’

  ‘Just give it another year, OK? Once I’ve got all these projects sorted out I won’t have to keep travelling so much, and then –’

  ‘You said that last year.’

  ‘I know. But –’

  ‘And the year before.’

  ‘Things are different now. I promise. This time next year everything will be OK.’

  That’s when I decided it was time to go.

  11.55 p.m.

  I only wrote a short shopping list tonight. We’ve got enough food for tomorrow, so all I asked for was some clean clothes and something to read. I didn’t bother asking the others if they wanted anything. I’m getting a bit sick of being mother. They know how it works. If they want something they can ask for it themselves.