Turning Point

by Barbara Spencer

  Order and obedience were now all he craved because if you had that, automatically you had a loving family around you and food… tons of the stuff. Anything you wanted, you could have. A voice shouted out “yeah” and began to applaud. Scott leapt to his feet applauding like a maniac as troops saluted their leader, pride in their every step.

  The screen went blank and silence fell. The instructor stared balefully at the group of boys seated in the last row their hands on the desk, the only ones not applauding. Scott inched round in his seat, recognising James and Chris. Their tutor’s bleak gaze swung on to include the guy with the split lip and one other.

  ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’

  James got to his feet clutching the desk for support. He looked like Scott felt, his eyes half-shut and drained of life. Sometime in the day, they’d been dragged out on a second walk or was it three they’d done now? Scott recalled the daylight but little else, needing every scrap of energy just to stay on his feet. If he remembered right, it had been cut short by heavy rain… or had he imagined that too?

  James nodded his head respectfully, as he would have done to a college lecturer. ‘I promise you, sir, none of us has any intention of ever getting into trouble again.’

  The ex-army figure nodded and, picking up a clipboard, began calling numbers. Scott caught the Number Nine and staggered to his feet.

  ‘The rest will stay here.’

  Scott stifled a groan. Not another run; he’d never manage it. He didn’t care any more. They could shoot him if they wanted but not another run. No more, please.

  Numbly, he stumbled into the lobby to find a guard waiting, the dull thud of his baton landing on his open palm like a call to arms. Behind him, the shiny aluminium doors leading to the courtyard remained closed, allowing no clue as to whether it was sun or moon that ruled the sky. Scott picked up his wrist to check the time then let it drop. It didn’t matter. Nothing did. Beckoning the line to follow, the guard opened swing doors into a corridor. Heads down, the line followed. A few of the inmates picked up on the sound of the baton landing on the guard’s open palm, beating out the rhythm of their footsteps, and tried to copy it. At the far end, swing doors opened inwards, light and warmth, and the smell of food, spilling out. Figures hurtled past Scott making a bee-line for the food, the swing doors crashing backwards and forwards with the force of bodies colliding with them.

  ‘Eat – and when you’ve finished you will find dormitories on the far side of the room. You will be called at six in the morning. Take a shower. You will find clean clothes waiting.’

  Scott gazed down at the clothes he’d worn since Friday, dirty and crumpled, dried bloodstains on the zipped front of his jacket, trying to work out what day it was.

  Grabbing a bottle of Coke, he stuffed a slice of tomato and mushroom pizza into his mouth, swallowing it half-chewed. Elbowing someone aside, he picked up a plate and, loading it up, collapsed into the nearest empty chair. No one was talking; a couple of the guys had fallen asleep at the table leaving their food untouched. Taking a mouthful of the fizzy drink, he stuffed in another slice of pizza, almost stumbling in his haste to reach his bed. His thoughts lurched incoherently, like sheep lost and wandering in a thick fog, before oblivion finally took over.

  Twenty-one

  Tuesday! It was Tuesday! Scott repeated the words over and over, determined to stay focussed and not be swept away by the subliminal imagery on the screen. He could feel it crawling around his head like a living parasite, whispering its sinister philosophy that black really was white. What he’d thought to be democracy was camouflage for something so evil it had to be wiped out before real peace could be achieved.

  He’d slept twelve hours. Only on waking did he realise it must have been early Monday evening when, fully dressed, his head had hit the pillow. Except there’d been no pillow, the bunk beds supplied with mattresses covered in plastic. Sometime in the night the electric light had been switched off and it was this flashing on, the strip-light dazzling after near-darkness, that woke him. Even without covers he hadn’t felt cold, but he felt gross – every bone aching, his stomach churning round and round, undecided if it was growling with hunger or about to throw up.

  A hot shower helped. He stood under the spray feeling the knots ease and break up, his head still pounding. In a side room, stacks of clothing in multiple sizes lay neatly piled on slatted wooden shelves. He had already collected a jacket and trousers from a pile of track suits, all in an identical shade of brown, underwear, trainers and clean socks, remembering to change over the container and eye drops for his lenses, which he had stowed in his pocket.

  The unit was small and compact, a medical room and toilet at the front of the building opposite the classroom. Behind them were the dormitories with an adjoining shower block, and what passed for a dining room, simply a collection of plastic tables and chairs, with a self-service counter dispensing hot and cold food. Scot had spotted only one other doorway. Bolted shut, it lay behind the counter and obviously led to other parts of the facility. There had to be more. Someone had to cook their dinner and someone had to wash their clothes, unless the outfits they’d arrived in were to be incinerated. Even so! His thoughts flew to Hilary. Was she on the far side of that locked door? He’d never have guessed by the silence in which the building was wrapped, so deep they could have been buried alive. Not a single sound invaded the space apart from their own breathing; not the slam of a door or the echo of distant laughter. They were entombed in a silence so vast that every member of the little group was affected. Scott stared around at his room-mates seeing their furtive glances, scurrying about like frightened mice trying not to make a noise. If this was what they had turned into after thirty-six hours, God help them.

  He headed back into the dormitory wondering what to do with his dirty clothes. Lightning, already dressed in the brown uniform, was lying on top of his bunk staring at the ceiling. Evenly spaced down the centre of the room were rectangular grilles, providing the warmed air that was life-blood to a building in which there were no windows. Breathing was something you took for granted but it was a horrid thought that without that mesh screen in the ceiling pumping in a steady stream of oxygen, no one would survive. Scott stared at the nearest vent. More than likely, it also concealed a camera or listening device. Lightning glanced up, as Scott walked past, giving him a half-smile. Scott replied with a brief nod, hoping if there was a camera, no one would bother with casual everyday greetings.

  He turned away stuffing his clothes into an already bulging hamper. Through the open doorway, he caught sight of Chris still asleep on a top bunk in the second dormitory, James impatiently trying to shake him awake. What had happened to them after the rest had been dismissed? He wished he was brave enough to pass on Lightning’s warning – at least it would keep them from being punished further.

  He finally got an opportunity when partnered with Chris on the afternoon run. The four friends had been split up and Scott had got Chris. His feet pounded the path, trying to keep in step with the line ahead, the third time they’d been dragged out to do this particular run… or was it the fourth? He shook his head unable to remember, the blistering attack on his senses too exhausting to keep track.

  The day had followed the same pattern; turmoil followed by enticing scenes of peace and plenty, in case anyone still needed a nudge in the right direction. Scott had joined in enthusiastically, never doubting for a moment the truth of what he was being shown. Any thought of dissent was swallowed up under an avalanche of graphic pictures detailing the consequences of disobedience – hard labour, solitary confinement with no food. Death by firing squad.

  It was the fresh air that had clawed him back from the precipice, bringing with it a reminder of mornings spent jogging along the beach in Cornwall with his father, who often used the time for a speedy lecture. One of his favourites: Take nothing at face value, especially when it sounds too good to be true, because it usually is. That had come about after a particular so
ciology class, when he had arrived home, spouting pure rubbish, according to his dad. Surprisingly, Scott found himself thinking more and more about Tulsa and his father. Somehow, with hell on the doorstop, it seemed easier to accept that they were dead. The word no longer frightened him.

  How simple it had been for them to be suckered in. Even now, he could still feel the insidious barbs lurking in the pores of his skin waiting to dig their sharp hooks in. Exhaustion didn’t help, his legs still aching from a build-up of lactic acid the day before. They’d not been offered breakfast and all he’d managed was a half-bottle of Coke that had gone flat and the crusts of pizza that he’d left on his plate before falling asleep. Every cell in his body screamed out for food. He heard Chris’s belly rumbling noisily and sympathised.

  The rain of the previous afternoon had left puddles denting the sandy surface of the path, making it impossible to do more than a fast walk. The bog-like surface sucked at their feet and, although now dry, the temperature had dropped steeply with a biting wind. Shivering with cold, his trainers heavy with mud, Scott doggedly set one foot in front of the other. At this rate it would take more than three hours to complete twelve miles. The thought of battling against the cold for that length of time was not pleasant but it was way better than the alternative. Taking advantage of the gap that had opened up between them and the guys behind, he murmured, ‘Did you get food?’

  Chris glanced sideways at him. He didn’t reply, concentrating on sidestepping a puddle, his feet moving sluggishly like someone unused to walking long distances.

  ‘I promise you, I’m no threat. I’ve no intention of snitching on anyone. I only wanted to tell you… to warn you to go along with anything they want. Lightning said it was the only way.’

  Chris gasped in astonishment. ‘He couldn’t survive this… not twice,’ he kept his voice to a low murmur.

  ‘No way! He says a guy at rehab warned him about this place. Told him, whatever they said or did, not to believe.’

  ‘Believe!’ Chris slowed, staring at Scott in amazement. Without his glasses to hide behind, his face seemed exposed and vulnerable, and a nervous tick flicked at the corner of his left eye.

  Scott grabbed his arm, hurrying him on.

  ‘Haven’t you ever read George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four? This lot have – it’s classic. Three days into our sentence and the group are standing in line to do their bidding,’ Chris’s tone was bitter. ‘I thought you were one of them.’

  Scott flushed, feeling ashamed. ‘No, I promise. But what do they want from us? It can’t only be about keeping out of trouble in future. If it was, why keep you back and not let you eat with the rest of us?’

  ‘If you get a chance, talk to James – his hypothesis is really freaky. He thinks their plan is an army of zombies to take over the world.’

  Scott screwed up his face, not sure if Chris was joking or James really did believe such rubbish. ‘Tell him, no way am I turning into a zombie.’

  Chris stared at him pityingly. ‘You didn’t think like that this morning. I saw your face. If they’d told you to jump in a river – you wouldn’t have hesitated.’

  Scott flushed. Had it been that obvious? ‘It’s so hard, everything screaming at you till you can’t think. Who else is holding on? If I know I’m not the only one it’ll be easier.’

  ‘James, me, Stephen and Max – he’s the one that got his mouth busted. One of his teeth is still loose so he’s not too keen about eating anyway. There’s a few guys still swinging in and out but not many. ’

  ‘Stephen? Which one’s he?’

  ‘Nerdy sort of bloke – red hair – studying politics and economics. You didn’t see him before; he was in one of the other cells. It would take more than a week’s brainwashing to sort out his obsession with right-wing politics.’ Chris took in a long breath, panting a little from the steep incline to the top of the sandy ridge, the ground rising steadily towards the hills. ‘Hates Europe, loves the Thatcher era.’

  ‘Lightning says they listen in.’

  ‘We guessed that. Max and James know sign language – they do most of the talking. I can understand bits – enough.’

  ‘You two, you know the rule.’ The instructor came alongside. The detainees had learned his name on that first day; Mr Reynolds-sir. It suited him. ‘You don’t get friendly. Add two miles to the twelve – and that means all of you.’ Groans ripped up and down the line. Scott winced, furious with himself for bringing retribution down on the entire group. It wasn’t fair but then none of this was. ‘Number Nine – at the front on your own,’ Mr Reynolds glanced back down the line, his eyes bright relishing the group’s discomfiture, his tone triumphant at being handed a God-given opportunity to inflict punishment. ‘Remember, one of you fouls up, you all foul up.’

  Breaking into a sprint, Scott overtook the figures walking ahead before reducing his speed again to a jog. The ground on either side of the sandy track was featureless and it would have been easy to get lost without the identifying stones and lights marking their path. He caught a quickly silenced groan from one of the guys but didn’t bother looking back. He had no intention of setting a fast pace, only too aware of the over-riding sensation of fatigue dominating the group. You could feel it washing into the air like a spiralling dust storm. But at this dragging speed they would freeze to death, the wind ice-tipped against his cheek. He headed out across a flat expanse of dry scrub, nothing to focus on except a string of scrubby spruce, their leaves curled and brittle and their trunks spindly and bent over, as desperate to escape the wind as the runners.

  After a few miles at a faster pace, Scott felt warmth begin to creep back into his body and, by the time the low silhouette of the facility appeared once more on the horizon, the ache in his legs had all but disappeared. He paused in his stride thinking how ugly the building looked, with its horizontal stripes of green and brown. Like a fat toad squatting on a piece of twig, perfectly suited to its evil purpose. Although, it didn’t much matter what it looked like, there were no towns nearby to object to having a prison in the vicinity – not even a tumbledown cottage on the horizon. Out here, you’d never stumble across tourists drooling over the scenery – there wasn’t any. The first run of the day took them across the plain, crossing the roadway along which the coaches had driven. The word plain was relevant in more ways than one, no trees to break the horizon and scarcely a dip or incline anywhere. It was only when they tackled the longer run, did they head out across the lower slopes of the hills. Wild-life seemed almost non-existent too. They had come across a weasel on their early-morning run… A six-mile jog at six, Mr Reynolds-sir had quipped as they had set out, still blurry-eyed. The weasel had caught a rabbit, its small carcass torn and bloody, but the heavy footfall made it leave its prey. And Scott had caught sight of a flock of birds, too high to identify. Other than that, the land seemed home to little else but gorse and grass. Yet even without beautiful scenery the feeling of freedom was a lifeline, something to grab onto when the ideas gushing out from the screen became intolerable.

  In the distance, Scott spotted movement. Squinting, he made out a line of running figures turning in through the gates of the facility. Hilary’s group? The ache in his chest returned, forcibly reminding him how much he missed her. The previous day and night had been all about survival – his – leaving no energy for anything else. Scott increased his pace again, glad he’d risked punishment to talk with Chris. It was good to know he wasn’t alone. He pushed back his shoulders, feeling in control for the first time that morning.

  Twenty-two

  Scott opened his eyes, wondering what had woken him. He glanced at his watch; it had gone midnight. After eating at six, most of the guys, including him, had gone straight to bed. The prison authorities hadn’t bothered to supply books or television. Besides, there was nowhere to sit except for a scattering of hard plastic chairs in the little dining room. And, since conversation wasn’t encouraged, Scott had found himself counting the cracks on the walls, or break
ing his bread into squares moving them around like pieces on a chessboard, anything to avoid thinking – and sleep was the best option.

  Since talking to Chris two days ago, he’d paid special attention to the detainees, noting the difference in attitude between those still holding out – and they didn’t include Lightning, unless he was the most brilliant actor in the world. The atmosphere had become like a minefield; one wrong step and… boom. Although, to be fair, so far no one had done more than exchange morose glances full of suspicion as if jealous even of the air they were sharing. Thank God, it was Thursday. Only two more days to go. Hopefully, they’d be out before the explosion took place. There would be one; someone was bound to lose control unable to take any more. Scott stared into the darkness, grateful his body was finally playing catch-up after sleeping like the dead three nights running. Even with only the one meal at night, he now found himself with energy to spare at the end of the day and it was boredom that carried him to bed so early, lacking even the will to brush his teeth. It was bizarre punishment routine, taking your prisoners to the edge of insanity before hauling them back.

  Catching the sound of movement, he leaned up on his elbow wondering who was out of bed. From the toilet block, red emergency lighting swept shadows across the dormitory, a second light at the far end of the corridor marking their exit in case of fire. It was an unlikely scenario though, with cigarettes and lighters banned and the dormitory empty except for a double-row of metal bunk beds. They hadn’t even been provided with a hanger for their clothes or a shelf or cupboard for their belongings; they had none. Their original clothes had been cleaned and stacked back on the shelves. Packed into a plastic carrier, they awaited the release date. He caught sight of a figure heading out of the dormitory and recognised the shorn head of Lightning.