by Kevin Brooks
Anyway, there I was, sitting cross-legged in the dry dirt in the middle of the corral … surrounded by a host of furry animals. They were toy animals, stuffed animals, you know the kind of thing. Soft toys with glass eyes and stitched mouths. And they all had the most incredible brightly coloured fur. Vivid yellow, electric blue, fluorescent red … orange, lilac, cartoon pink …
And they were alive.
They were stuffed animals, but they were also alive.
They didn’t do very much in the dream, they just sat around in a gently fidgeting circle, murmuring softly to one another, glancing at me every now and then. They were definitely alive though.
There’s no doubt about that.
There were about two dozen of them, maybe more. Thirty or so. Monkeys, bears, cows, dogs, tigers, lions, pigs, sheep, penguins, crocodiles, chickens … all kinds of animals. They were all about the same size, about the size of a small dog, or a cat, and they all had coats of irresistibly soft and shiny fur, the kind of fur that makes you want to reach out and stroke it.
But I didn’t reach out and stroke it.
I didn’t stroke the animals.
I didn’t have to. All I had to do was sit there and let them smile at me. That’s all I had to do. It was wonderful.
I think they loved me.
Simple as that.
I just sat there, they smiled at me, and then after a while the bell rang and it was time to go. And that was it. The farm bell rang when it was time to go back down the hill. The bell rang, I stood up and walked away, down the hill, and the animals’ eyes went cold, like I’d ruined everything, and then the dream faded to black.
It doesn’t mean anything. Dreams never mean anything. All it means is that everything’s the same. School, the street, madmen, beggars, animals, me … we’re all the same.
We’re all interchangeable.
This afternoon I showed Russell around the building. There wasn’t really much to show him, but it was still slow going. He tires very easily. His eyes – his eye – keeps glazing over and he has to keep sitting down for a rest. So it took a long time, but that didn’t matter. We didn’t have much else to do. I showed him everything. The lift, the rooms, the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the grilles. And he studied it all with a quiet intensity, asking me questions, touching things, listening, sniffing, making notes, looking at things, all the time nodding quietly and humming to himself.
Afterwards he went into his room to think about things.
An hour later he came out and called us all to the table.
‘We’re in a reconditioned bunker,’ he announced. ‘The walls are constructed of .75-metre concrete strengthened with steel mesh. The roof is at least one metre thick and the foundations are set in about three metres of concrete. The lift shaft is made of tank steel and probably protected with heavy blast walls. Lights, heating, plumbing, and ventilation are powered by a diesel-engine generator system.’ He paused and looked at the ceiling. ‘Those grilles were originally part of a filtration system for extracting radioactive material and chemical or biological agents. The system has been adapted to allow gases to be pumped into the bunker, and the grilles have been fitted with audio and video surveillance equipment –’
‘What’s a bunker?’ interrupted Jenny.
Russell smiled. ‘An underground building. Like a bomb shelter. Most of them were built in the early 1950s when the threat of nuclear war became a reality. They were originally intended as command centres for the deployment and firing of our anti-aircraft defences.’ He gazed around. ‘Of course, the original building would have been a lot bigger than this. There would have been lots of rooms, a command centre, communication equipment, even different levels. This …’ He waved his hands, indicating the building. ‘This is just a small part of the original bunker. Probably the living quarters. The rest of it must have been sealed up or blocked in. That’s what I meant by reconditioned. You see –’
Bird yawned loudly.
Russell looked at him. ‘I take it you find this uninteresting?’
‘Well,’ said Bird, ‘it doesn’t exactly help a lot, does it?’
Russell said nothing.
Bird said, ‘Hey, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure you know what you’re talking about, and if I wasn’t stuck down here I’m sure I’d find it fascinating. But let me ask you something. All this fancy talk, all this historical bullshit – how’s it going to get us out of here?’
Russell didn’t answer.
Bird grinned smugly – like the fool who thinks he’s outsmarted the professor – and his fat eyes glanced around the table, seeking approval. No one said anything. There wasn’t anything to say. Bird took that to mean we agreed with him.
‘You see?’ he said, grinning triumphantly. ‘You see what I mean?’
I felt like hitting him.
After that the meeting kind of petered out and we all drifted away to sit around doing nothing. A little while later though, I met up with Russell and Fred and we had a little chat about something.
I can’t tell you what it was.
It’s a secret.
It’s evening now. Seven o’clock, eight o’clock, something like that. It’ll be dark outside. Dark, cold, probably raining. I expect it’s windy too. One of those hard gusty winds that spits the rain against the back of your neck like tiny wet needles. I wouldn’t mind some of that right now. A bit of rain, a sharp breeze, the night sky. Stars …
Shit.
This is the worst time of day. From about five until midnight. That’s when the time really drags. I don’t know why. It’s no less boring than any other time of day, but for some reason it really gets to me. The silence, the whiteness, the emptiness.
Down here the evenings last for ever.
There’s not much to do.
I think a lot.
I think of all sorts of things.
You wouldn’t believe some of the things I think about. And I’m not going to tell you either. I mean, think about it. If I told you all my thoughts … well, imagine that. Think your darkest thoughts, then imagine telling them to a stranger. How does that feel?
Right.
Thinking isn’t criminal.
But there’s another reason I don’t tell you everything, a more practical reason. You see, you are the unknown. You are you, and sometimes you’re me, but you’re also Him, The Man Upstairs. Or at least you could be Him. I’m not saying you are, but I have to bear that possibility in mind. I mean, I do everything I can to keep these words hidden. I don’t leave the notebook lying around. I close it when I’m not writing. I always write with my back to the cameras. But there are no guarantees down here. Anything is possible. I have no way of knowing that The Man Upstairs isn’t reading my thoughts. I have no way of knowing that He is either.
I suppose I could just ask Him.
Hey, Mister, are you reading this? Give me a sign if you are. Knock on the ceiling or something. And by the way, while I’ve got you on the line, let me tell you something. Let me tell you this: I know that I might die in here. I’m well aware of that. I know that you might kill me. In fact, I think you probably will. But you can’t kill my thoughts. Thoughts don’t need a body. They don’t need air. They don’t need food or water or blood. So even if you do kill me, I’ll still be thinking of you. Do you understand what I’m saying? I’ll be thinking of you until the end of time.
And that’s a stone-cold promise.
Think about that, Mister.
You think about that.
Saturday, 11 February
Now He’s started playing games.
When the lift came down this morning there was the usual bag of food, plus some cl
eaning stuff that Jenny had asked for – bottles of disinfectant and bleach – and there was also a large cardboard box. It was one of those packing boxes that supermarkets throw out or leave by the door for putting your shopping in. A big one. All taped up. It was Anja’s turn to get the food out of the lift, but we were all there when it came down. We usually are. It’s the highlight of the day. Anyway, we got the food out and put the box on the kitchen table and then opened it up.
It contained:
Six bottles of vodka.
Ten packets of cigarettes.
Three disposable lighters.
Several pornographic magazines (of various persuasions).
A syringe.
A metal teaspoon.
A small polythene bag full of brown powder.
Some newspaper clippings.
We all just stood there for a while, staring at all this stuff like fishes studying a worm on a hook, and I felt my heart sinking. I looked around at the kinds of eyes and faces I’ve seen a thousand times before – hungry eyes, hungry faces, empty heads saying gimme, gimme, gimme.
I knew what it meant.
I could visualize The Man Upstairs watching us all with a sick grin on His face, thinking to Himself – Right, let’s see you working on that lot together.
It was a smart move, I’ll give Him that. Smart and nasty.
Fred was the first to crack. I somehow knew he would be. He stepped forward and reached for the polythene bag and a bottle of vodka, and then the rest of them jumped in and took the bait. Snap snap snap. Gimme, gimme, gimme. Anja ripped open a packet of cigarettes and scrabbled for a lighter, and Bird grabbed a bottle and twisted off the cap.
‘Hold on,’ I said.
But they weren’t listening. Their eyes burned fiercely as they tore open their toys.
I turned to Russell. ‘Do something.’
‘What?’
‘Stop them.’
He shook his head sadly.
I turned back to the table. Bird was taking a slug from the bottle and Fred was dabbing his finger in the polythene bag. I grabbed his arm.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I said. ‘You’ve only just got off it.’
He brushed my hand away.
‘Come on, Fred,’ I begged. ‘Please?’
He just stared at me.
‘I need you,’ I told him.
‘I need this.’
‘Why?’
‘Why anything? Why not?’
‘But –’
He pushed me away, grabbed a magazine and some cigarettes, and marched out of the kitchen. I sighed and looked around. The table was strewn with ripped cellophane and torn paper. Bird had gone. Anja was sitting down, sucking hungrily on a cigarette. She looked up at me with a self-satisfied grin and blew smoke into the air.
‘Yeah?’ she said nastily. ‘What are you looking at?’
‘Nothing.’
I’ve burned the remaining magazines. I was going to burn the cigarettes too, and pour the vodka down the sink, but then I thought – it’s not up to me, is it? I can’t make choices for other people. We all want and need different things. And besides, if I poured the vodka away and burned the cigarettes I’d probably get beaten up.
The newspaper clippings were mostly about Jenny’s disappearance. There were a couple about Anja, and one about Bird, but the rest were all about Jenny. There were photographs of her, of her parents, of the street where she went missing. There were articles, theories, suppositions, details of various suspects the police had interviewed, words of outrage from politicians and journalists.
I didn’t let Jenny see them.
It would only have upset her.
I burned them all.
Then I went to my room and screamed silently at the walls. It’s all about games. He’s playing His and we’re playing ours. His involves giving us what we think we want, our vices, or what He thinks will damage us, our weaknesses, and then seeing what happens. I suppose it’s a bit like one of those artificial-life computer games. You know, the kinds of games that let you play God. Yeah, I can see Him liking that. He’s bound to be that kind of person. An only child, probably. The sort of kid who spent all his time on his own, setting light to ants and pulling the legs off spiders.
Yeah, I can see that.
10.00 p.m.
Games.
I’ve spent most of the night playing word games with Jenny and Russell. Tennis Elbow, Hangman, stuff like that. I wasn’t really in the mood for it, but I didn’t want to leave Jenny on her own. There’s a nasty feeling in the air tonight. Fred’s whacked out of his head in his room. Anja’s sobbing drunk. And Bird’s been stomping around shouting like a lunatic all night.
It’s nothing to worry about really, but it’s probably pretty scary for a little kid.
So that’s why we’ve been playing games. It helps to pass the time and it takes Jenny’s mind off things.
Mine too, I suppose.
Russell’s really good with Jenny. He’s got this ‘twinkly old man’ thing about him, like he’s wise and pleasantly stupid at the same time. I know it’s only an act, and I think Jenny does too, but it’s still pretty good.
Like when Jenny asked him what he was.
‘I’m a natural philosopher,’ he told her.
‘What’s that?’
‘A sort of physicist. I ask questions about the world, and then I try to answer them.’
‘What sort of questions?’
‘All sorts, but mostly the kinds of questions we forget about asking when we grow up. Like why the sky is blue, why space is black, why stars shine, why we have two eyes.’
Jenny smiled. ‘Why do we have two eyes?’
Russell plucked a loose button from his shirt and placed it on the bed about half a metre from Jenny. ‘Close one eye,’ he told her, ‘then touch the button with your finger.’
Jenny looked at him.
‘Go on,’ he said.
She closed one eye and reached out to touch the button. Her finger started wobbling, she frowned, then jabbed at the bed, missing the button by a couple of centimetres.
‘Hey,’ she said, opening her eye.
Russell smiled. ‘That’s why we have two eyes, to stop us Heying.’
The night goes on. It’s just me and Jenny now. Russell’s face started looking a bit pale about half an hour ago, then his head started nodding and his eyes began to close. I gave him a nudge and told him to go back to his room and go to bed.
‘Will you be all right?’ he said.
‘No trouble.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah, go on.’
He went.
So here I am, sitting with my back to the door, talking to myself again. Jenny’s in bed with the sheets pulled up over her head, trying to sleep. Outside, Bird is still stomping around, shouting his drunken mouth off.
It’s one of those nights.
I’ve been here before. Sitting in my room listening to Dad going crazy about something. Nights at boarding school, stupid stuff going on. Nights on the street, crazy people fighting over cardboard boxes …
I’ve had it worse than this.
Sunday, 12 February
Today feels like a Sunday. I don’t know why. Every day’s the same down here. Same air, same light, same routine. Nothing changes. But for some reason today feels different. It’s got that Sunday emptiness to it. That post-Saturday night sourness. The smell of dried sick.
Last night, after the lights went out, Bird kept up his ranting for an hour or so, then he banged around in the kitchen for a bit, went to the bathroom, made some horrible noises, and then everything went quiet. I couldn
’t get to sleep. I just sat there staring at the dark, listening to Jenny sleeping. She was making funny little breathy sounds, the unsettled sounds of dreaming – ka ka ka … nuh nuh … mmnoo …
Sometime in the early hours I heard a door opening and unsteady footsteps shuffling along the corridor. Someone knocked on a door. Then I heard a drunken whisper. I couldn’t hear the words, but they didn’t sound very nice. After a minute I heard Anja’s voice hissing in reply.
‘Go away.’
Mumbling.
‘No, NO! Just leave me ALONE!’
More mumbling, a drunken curse, then footsteps stumbled back along the corridor, a door opened and closed, and it was quiet again.
Nothing happened the rest of the day. Nothing at all.
Tuesday, 14 February
I haven’t written anything for a while. No reason, really. I had a few things I needed to think about. I wanted to empty my mind. Sort things out. I just wanted to be on my own.
You haven’t missed much.
The drink and drugs have all gone. The cigarettes have all been smoked. The party’s over, and now we’re all paying the price. Fred’s gone back to howling and moaning all day, and Anja and Bird are hungover and irritable. The place is a mess. No one’s done any cleaning. The bathroom stinks. The rota’s been forgotten. No one cares any more. The evening meetings don’t happen. We don’t talk about escaping. We don’t talk about anything.
I’ve been watching the clock. I’ve been sitting down at the dining table with my hands resting on my knees, keeping my eyes on the clock, watching the second hand, tapping a finger in time to the seconds. One, two, three, four, five, six … I just keep tapping, looking at the clock, looking away, tapping, tapping, counting the time in my head … one, two, three, four, five, six … until I get it right. What you have to do is count quite slowly and add the word thousand to every second. One, thousand … two, thousand … three, thousand. If you practise long enough you can measure the time pretty accurately.