Turning Point

by Barbara Spencer

  On the Tuesday morning, after being fed and allowed to sleep, they’d been herded outside, one guard forcibly removing studs and earrings from lips, ears, tongues and eyebrows, while another wielded clippers. Lightning’s shoulder-length hair had been quickly consigned to a pile of hair-clippings on the ground, exposing his wine-coloured blemish to view. Only Chris and Scott had escaped the clippers; Natasha’s haircut sufficiently draconian for Scott to pass muster while Chris, uncaring about his appearance, already sported an economical short-back-and-sides that made his ears stick out. Scott had felt huge sympathy for Lightning then. A bulky ribbon of twisted scar tissue ran down the back of his neck, perhaps the result of a bad burn, and long hair had shielded him from curious stares.

  Scott listened, catching the faintest of clicks as the door to one of the stalls was shut. A couple of the guys had suffered diarrhoea and sickness, gorging on rich pizza and curry after their enforced starvation, but Lightning hadn’t been among them. Sleepily he lay back down, his thoughts drifting in and out of their own accord, still trying to work out the rationale behind their treatment. It made a sick kind of sense, especially if you treated the first couple of days as a painful yet permanent deterrent. It was rather like playing a game of good cop/bad cop only it wasn’t a game. The ordeal of the classroom, bewildering and terrifying as it was, was the menacing negative and the constant exercise was the positive, leaving them fitter and stronger. The group as a whole had improved their times that morning and been rewarded with milky coffee and bread on their return – but no praise. Scott had come to the conclusion that you could have tortured their instructor to death – a task for which he would eagerly have volunteered if the occasion ever arose – before a kind word ever passed his lips. The man seemed incapable of anything other than a merciless stare more likely to render its victim incoherent and blubbing.

  But the images on the screen… Someone had to possess a really twisted mind to dream those up. Now they were being fed, the food feasts had all but vanished. The nightmare images still played, often the same ones seen through a different camera angle, but it was educational films that occupied the screen now, men in white jackets droning on and on about becoming model citizens. Obeying without question had become the key to happiness, and the bright, cheerful images on the screen proved it.

  None of it made any sense… unless James was right and they really did want to create an army of mindless zombies. Gradually, Scott drifted off into a dreamlike sleep, his mind haphazardly winding down, occasionally blinking back into consciousness, unable to recall what he’d been thinking about a moment before. He caught the sound of a footfall and an almost indiscernible creak from the bunk above. Sleepily, he scratched an itch on the back of his neck, catching sight of the luminous digits on his watch before subsiding once again into sleep.

  He was out of bed the moment the electric light snapped onto his eyelids. That first night, he’d made the mistake of leaving his lenses in, and his eyes had been inflamed and sore when he woke next morning. Since then, he’d removed them under cover of darkness, dashing to the toilet the moment he woke to put them in again.

  A deluge of coughing, clearing of throats, the odd expletive, and not a few groans, greeted Scott as he headed for the showers. But no friendly word hit the air. The threats of that first night remained, each inmate locked inside his own personal space. He picked up a clean towel from the pile. He felt the same. They’d been together since Sunday, it was now Thursday, and he knew no more about any of the guys than when he got on the coach five days ago. Okay, so their faces had become as familiar as his own, but forced to use numbers instead of names kept everyone at a distance. Besides, the warnings on that first night had labelled any overtures of friendship as suspicious.

  Scott opened the hot tap, a burst of steam preceding a deluge of hot water. That had proved an even more important reason for getting to the showers early. If you left it late, the water was tepid rather than hot and the tiled floor became a death trap of slippery soap suds and scum. Scott angled the shower head at his bare legs, noticeably more muscular than when he’d arrived and gingerly, taking care not to slip, grabbed his towel, wrapping it round his waist.

  He passed Lightning coming out of the toilets. The guy looked awful – his skin tinged grey from lack of sleep.

  ‘Okay?’ he said, the expression on his face enquiring.

  Lightning gave him a startled look. Glancing rapidly over his shoulder, he shoved Scott into a toilet stall and leant back against the door to keep it closed.

  ‘You numb-skull,’ he hissed fiercely. ‘Haven’t you any more sense than to wash your hair – didn’t you realise that bloody stuff isn’t permanent. Another couple of days and it’ll have gone.’

  ‘So I dye my hair. Big deal,’ Scott blustered, keeping his voice low.

  ‘Big deal!’ Lightning’s face lit up in a mocking grin. ‘When I happen to know you’re not Travers Randal.’ Scott blanched and took a step back. ‘I know Travers and you don’t look anythin’ like him. He’s twenty pounds heavier for starters.’

  Scott felt his mind ticking over and over, searching for a denial that was believable. ‘So what were you doing out here for two hours last night?’ he said, suddenly remembering the luminous dial on his watch had shifted from 00 to 02, the words flying out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  Lightning pinned the younger boy against the wall, his arm pressed tightly across Scott’s throat. ‘If you intend reachin’ Saturday alive, you’ll keep quiet, understand?’ His eyes bored into Scott, his expression ugly; the casual friendship and concern of the past few days wiped out. Scott swallowed painfully and nodded, straining against the arm stopping his breath. ‘And quit washin’ your hair.’

  Without waiting for a reply, Lightning opened the door and slipped out.

  Too shocked and stunned to follow, Scott dropped down onto the toilet seat. His throat felt bruised and he massaged it gently. The guy was a nutcase, his mood swings quicker than lightning. No prizes why the nickname. Nothing to do with being christened Peter Sparks at all. Of all the rotten luck! But how would Travers come across someone like that? Falmouth was a huge distance from Exeter. If Travers went anywhere, it would be to play rugby at a school or travel up to London where his parents had a flat. Cautiously Scott pulled open the door and made his way back into the shower room. The hot water had steamed up the only mirror and he rubbed it clear with a corner of his towel, taking a good hard look. He gasped aloud, darting a nervous glance around hoping no one had heard. The face staring back at him was Scott Anderson with brown eyes. How could he have been so stupid? Panicking, he hurried into the dormitory hastily flinging on his track suit, all at once grateful for the rule about not making friends. To their guards he was a prisoner, a number, someone of no importance. Dyeing your hair didn’t make you a felon. He bent down to tie his trainers, looping the laces into a double knot that would stay in place, his pulses racing. Should he do something about it? But what? Ruefully, he felt his collar bone, the skin tender. Forget it. Lightning wouldn’t dare speak out; he had too much to lose if he really was wandering about in the middle of the night.

  Hesitantly, Scott made his way into the corridor automatically glancing into the dormitory on the far side, deserted except for Chris who was scrabbling about on the floor searching for something under his bunk. He was always the last. Holy crap! Breaking into a run, Scott tore through the door into the lobby, remembering just in time to collect a bottle of water from the stack near their classroom. Avoiding eye contact he joined the waiting line, their instructor halfway through calling their numbers.

  Scott carried his empty tray over to the waiting trolley, stacking his plate and cutlery neatly. Force of habit kept him searching for clues that someone – anyone – existed apart from the guards and their instructor. At the very least there should have been off-stage noises like water running or a distant voice shouting an instruction. Perhaps a cleaning cloth or broom carelessly left behind. Noth
ing, apart from dishes of hot food and a trolley waiting to be loaded with dirty trays and plates. Obviously the same perverted mind that had created their punishment knew well the effects of isolation and its ability to eat away at healthy minds like a cancerous growth. It had worked brilliantly too. On the coach, guys had clung together taking solace from the company of a stranger. No longer. Over five days, careful schooling had transformed the majority into morose, suspicious individuals who steered clear of their companions, leaving the atmosphere heavy and charged with aggression. Only the friendship of James, Chris, Max and Stephen remained intact. If anything they clung more tightly together. Not talking or using names, overtures of friendship were expressed in a half-smile or raised eyebrow. A few guys responded but not many.

  Scott headed for the dormitory still unsure what he was going to do. He wasn’t the only one. James and Chris, suffering from blisters, took every opportunity to lie down, and at least half a dozen others – all of them grateful for the extra rest.

  Gradually, the sounds of night changed from teeth cleaning and toilets flushing to heavy breathing. Scott fell into a doze, wrapped in a dream of Hilary, her smile like sunshine. He missed her dreadfully. Now he was no longer starving and worn out, he had hours of time in which to fret and her absence was like a constant pain. The thought that she could be asleep on the far side of the wall somehow made it worse. He caught the faint clicking of a latch followed by a scuffling sound like mice and hurriedly slid out of his bunk.

  Keeping close to the wall, he peered round the open door to the toilet block. Pinned back at night, the faint red glow from the emergency lighting showed a deserted washroom, a row of shower-heads dangling forlornly like alien bodies on their long, spindly hoses. Taken aback, he tip-toed across the room, ducking down to peer through the gap under the toilet doors. Nothing there but the rounded shape of the metal bowl, its base concreted into the tiled floor. Inching open the first of the half-dozen stalls, he checked for the tell-tale sound of breathing, but heard nothing apart from the dripping of water from a leaky shower head.

  Angry at falling asleep, Scott headed back out of the washroom. He stopped dead in the doorway and swung on his heel, staring up at the ceiling, seeing what he’d missed first time round… the ventilation grille above the middle cubicle was no longer flush. It had been moved.

  Silent in bare feet, he clambered onto the back of the cistern. Grasping the top of the partition wall, he pulled himself up, aware now that the strange noise had been Lightning’s toes scrabbling for a purchase on its plastic surface. Balancing carefully, he reached up and slowly slid the grille to one side, the space beyond it black and uninviting.

  Scott flinched, a sudden pain in his throat forcibly reminding him of the folly he was about to commit. Before he could wimp out, he swung his body up nudging the grille slowly back into place. All around, he sensed space and air. Stretching his fingers, he traced the shape of the duct – flat at the bottom where it lay flush with the ceiling, pointed at the top – five-sided. Softly, he rubbed the palm of his hand against its metal surface sensing the miniscule irregularities, which meant iron rather than steel.

  He stared round the dark tube unsure what to do next. No point heading towards the yard; there was nothing there. Forced to wait outside for the tail end of the line to finish their run, he’d have noticed if there had been. Ahead, a series of radiator grilles marked his path lifting the shadow in an otherwise black coffin. A flicker of excitement pulsed through his veins, hastily damped down. Whichever way you looked at it, following someone who had threatened to kill you into a dark tunnel was the height of folly. Scott flashed a grin into the darkness and began to pull himself along on his arms, before he had second thoughts which might quash his resolve. Despite the danger, he had to know. Besides, it just might prove useful to have a fall-back position in case he was recognised.

  Ahead, he spotted a glimmer of light. It moved, jerking up and down. How the heck did Lightning manage to get hold of a torch? All their possessions had been confiscated by the police. He’d been lucky to hang on to his drops and his watch, which had been returned when they boarded the coach.

  Silently he pursued the flickering light, the woollen fabric of his T-shirt and trousers gliding easily across the metal surface, grateful that he’d left his jacket with its metal zip on the corner of his bunk. Once the initiation was over, their beds had been supplied with sheets and they’d been given a pack with a face flannel, toothbrush and toothpaste but, apart from fresh towels every day, nothing else except for a clean tracksuit and shorts each morning – not even pyjamas. In any case most of his roommates slept fully dressed, they were so tired. And there seemed no shortage of gear. Twice now, they’d got soaked on a run and been sent to change. Scott paused. Somewhere in the building there had to be a laundry. The plastic bins were stacked high each morning with dirty clothes and towels, arriving washed and dried and back on the shelves by evening. Scott had never considered himself squeamish but the idea that a stranger or, even worse, someone he disliked, had been wearing his clothes the previous day left him feeling slightly nauseous. Even knowing they were washed in between made little difference.

  Climbing had given him great control over his muscles and he moved quickly, the spark of light intensifying. On either side numerous smaller ducts fed off the main shaft and night noises, an occasional snore and rustle of sheets as someone turned over, drifted up from the dormitory below. Ahead, blue light trickled into the ventilation shaft lifting the solid blackness away. He paused, squinting down through the grille, identifying the bulky shape of a steel workbench, a large microwave standing on it. At last he’d found the kitchen, although it was a pretty peculiar place to put it, tacked onto the back of a building. Perhaps the architect had forgotten that prisoners needed feeding and it had been built as an afterthought.

  Edging towards the next shadowy square, he was surprised to find the tunnel continuing, the airflow stronger. Puzzled, he stopped and stared back into the darkness, picturing the building as he’d seen it from the running track. There was no scenery to gaze at and, on the return leg, their path often took them across the bare rock of the hillside, giving him to memorise its stubby shape; the building backed up close to a rocky overhang like a wild boar cornered by the hunt.

  Ahead, the darkness had become solid as if a brick wall had been built across it, the flickering light vanished. Excitement and fear in equal measure ripped through him at the thought of discovering a way out. He made to pull himself forward and stopped. Even if it did lead out, what use would it be? They were miles away from civilisation. Besides, they were going back to England in a couple of days.

  Scott stared into the empty darkness half-inclined to go back to bed. A trickle of warm air passed across his body reminding him all at once of that day in the spring – the very last day when everything was normal. It was April and the sky had been densely blue. He had freewheeled the slope from the cottage listening to the birdsong, new lambs pushing their noses inquisitively through the bars of the fence watching him cycle past. Nothing would ever be like that again, so what had he got to lose? He listened to the silence, his thoughts confused and bitter, aware that from now on silence would mirror the pattern of his life.

  Making up his mind, he inched forward his arms at a stretch. Sensing space all round, he stretched out his fingers to touch the walls. Without warning, a knee struck the middle of his back pinning him down, a hand across his nose and mouth to stop him crying out. A light flashed, instantly extinguished.

  Twenty-three

  Like a sudden rainstorm lashing down, vivid memories of Sean Terry taking him prisoner swept through Scott’s mind, blocking every sensation except the need to keep breathing.

  ‘Damn young fool, thought I’d warned you against gettin’ yerself killed,’ a voice hissed in his ear.

  Panicking, Scott got his fingers to his mouth and pulled against the hand. It gripped harder, stopping his breath totally. He choked, the pressure in
his lungs like an iron bar.

  ‘I’ll let you go – but you promise first to keep quiet. A single sound and it’ll be a bullet in the brain.’

  Scott dragged his head into a nod of acceptance, desperate for air. This was the second time Lightning had nearly throttled him. He felt the hand pull away, the weight disappearing off his back, and hauled in a vital breath. Painfully he sat up, his head bent forward over his knees, shaking uncontrollably. The light flashed again and he saw they were in a large island of space, pipes criss-crossing left and right like a busy intersection on a motorway.

  ‘Why the hell did you follow me, I warned you?’ Lightning whispered into Scott’s ear.

  Scott rubbed his sore neck, unwilling to confess he didn’t have a proper reason, only a gut instinct and an inbuilt hatred of taking orders. He lived the whole of his life taking orders from his dad, never bringing things into the open, and look where it had got him. ‘I thought you were a spy,’ he croaked. ‘I was scared you were going to tell on me… I wanted to stop you… besides, I thought you might know a way out.’ He ended the sentence lamely, aware it made no sense.

  ‘You blitherin’ nitwit, Scott Anderson. If I had been a spy, I have used a door not crawl through this thing.’

  ‘I was right though, you do know who I am.’ Scott kept his voice to a murmur. ‘So how come you’ve got a torch if you’re not spying on us?’ Scott touched the scrap of metal, a small light bulb set into plastic casing, scarcely longer than the top joints of his middle finger. Surprisingly, he no longer felt afraid.