Extracted

by RR Haywood

  That night, she waited for the hours of darkness to come. She fretted and worried and panicked at the thought but was determined to see it through. Besides, if she was completely honest she knew that, deep down, it was not entirely selfless. Ben had to come back. It was this or nothing. She had no more ideas. No more hope.

  With Harry’s snoring rattling the bunker, she slipped into the bathroom and stared at her own reflection properly for the first time in months. She looked at the shape of her eyes and pulled her hair out to let it hang down to her shoulders. Her hands trembled as she got ready. Nerves mostly, but with the tiniest, almost unseen hint of excitement. She was doing this for Ben. He had to come back. He was going to die. His life would end either here by his own hand or by going back to perish on the tracks at Holborn. He just needed to remember what it was like to feel alive.

  She swallowed, took a deep breath, sniffed her armpits, nodded and tugged her bra down a touch to show a bit more of the tops of her breasts.

  ‘You up?’

  Ben snapped awake. His eyes instantly going to the door at the strange tone of voice. Like she was worried.

  ‘Ben? You up?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he croaked. He’d started to doze off and the traces from the nightmare were still evident in the panic and fear he felt.

  The door opened. She turned the dimmer switch of his light just enough to bring the tiniest glimmer of light into his room. She closed the door and with her heart thundering in her chest she walked towards his bed.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked, his voice low.

  She didn’t know what to say, so said nothing. She stopped next to his bed. Her arms at her sides and her eyes searching his face.

  He couldn’t help but look. She’d walked in, turned the light on low and stopped right next to his bed. He blinked and flicked his eyes quickly up over her body to her eyes and stopped. His heart reacted. Thudding harder. He swallowed, blinked and moved to sit up higher.

  She didn’t say a word but waited, watching, searching and seeing it. Seeing that flicker right there. It strengthened her resolve and made that small sense of excitement grow bigger, and quickly too. She moved deftly. Easing on to his bed to lift one leg over to straddle his thighs. He froze instantly. His eyes widening. His mouth instantly dry. He blinked fast. She rested a hand on his naked chest and felt the thudding of his heart. She smiled nervously, suddenly vulnerable and exposed. His eyes remained locked on hers. His mind whirling as she lowered down so slowly it took forever. Her hands moved out to find his. Her fingers entwined with his. No words were said. No words were needed. She moved up higher from his thighs towards his groin. He drew breath, fast and sudden. She felt him stiffen beneath her and again it strengthened her resolve and made that small sense of excitement grow further.

  Eyes locked. Hers so dark and stunning. His so blue and full of pain and hurt and possessed of a depth that seemed endless and made her sink lower with her lips forever moving towards his. He moved up too. He reacted to lift towards her. His stomach muscles now strong enough to hold that position without shaking or feeling pain. At that last second she paused. Her lips but a fraction from his. She didn’t know why she paused, only that she did. Perhaps it was to savour the feeling of the moment, perhaps it was to reflect, perhaps it was to think that despite the reasons for coming in here to do this, she actually really wanted him to kiss her right now.

  That pause broke the spell. He looked down to see the perfection of her form. The flawless skin tone, the raven-black hair spilling down and he felt more worthless in that second than in all the previous seconds of his depression combined. It was the lowest. He was being pitied by someone he respected and admired more than anyone else he had ever met and that single thought was the catalyst.

  She felt it change. She’d seen his eyes look down and she wanted him to look. She wanted him to see. She wanted Ben to feel desired, valued, to feel like a man and come back to what he was because he’d taken life so others could live and he’d done it again. She wanted him to look and be turned on. She wanted him to feel the tenderness of intimacy. He had dignity and pride. He was something so special and for that he should not be left to die so alone and frightened. It was when he looked up back at her eyes that she knew it was wrong. A mistake made, something that was suddenly stupid and cheap.

  ‘Get out,’ he whispered, the words trembling and full of emotion. ‘Get the fuck out . . .’

  She moved fast. From his bed to the door to her own that was closed quickly as the tears spilled down her cheeks. Humiliation. Loss. Rejection. She wept then. She wept for the first time in years and she did it quietly, almost silently, as Ben lay on his bed with his own cheeks glistening.

  Twenty-Seven

  The morning is the same as every other morning. He wakes up to Safa knocking on the door and goes through the motions of showering, brushing his teeth and getting dressed.

  ‘Drink,’ she says bluntly in a tone he doesn’t register.

  ‘Eat,’ she says. He takes a freshly baked croissant from the bowl and goes through the motions of putting it in his mouth.

  ‘Ben!’

  ‘What?’ He looks up, startled at the glare coming from Safa.

  ‘You didn’t even notice.’

  ‘Notice what?’

  ‘The croissant,’ she snaps, getting up from the table.

  ‘Eh?’ he asks, confused until he realises this is the first time they’ve had them, plus the fact that he used to love fresh croissants, which no doubt was on Wikipedia.

  ‘I’ll wait outside,’ Safa says, getting up and taking the black bag with the pistols with her. Ben watches her go, knowing he should say something, but he doesn’t.

  ‘She got them for you,’ Harry says.

  ‘Yeah,’ Ben says for lack of anything else in his head.

  ‘She’s trying.’

  Ben looks at him, sensing a build-up to something else. Harry shifts on his chair and bites into a croissant that flakes apart with crumbs falling lightly to the plate in front of him. ‘What happened when you were seventeen?’ Harry asks.

  ‘Safa ask you to ask me? Get me talking?’

  ‘I’m interested,’ Harry says.

  ‘Not much to say. I was walking home on a country lane. Car pulls up. Five blokes attacked a woman and her kid . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘You killed them?’

  ‘Yes. Killed three outright, another died while we waited on the ambulance. The last was DOA.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Knife.’

  ‘How did it play out?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘What happened after?’

  ‘Got arrested but they let me go. The blokes were gang members . . . like gangsters?’

  ‘I know what gang members are.’

  ‘I had therapy. They gave me a new name and that was it.’

  ‘Therapy?’

  ‘Yeah. They thought I’d be messed up in the head for killing a bunch of people.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Harry eats the croissant and stands from the table. ‘You ready?’ he asks, but doesn’t wait before walking off towards the door.

  Ben watches him go, feeling like a complete wanker for refusing to engage in conversation. Fuck it. Instead, he eats slowly and drinks water, staring round in baleful hatred at the bare concrete walls and the bare concrete floor while thinking back to Safa last night.

  Eventually, he heads outside to both of them waiting at the table with three pistols already on the top. Ben sighs and picks one up.

  ‘Field strip?’ he asks sarcastically. Seconds later the gun is stripped and in parts on the table. ‘Reassemble?’ he asks and clicks it back together. ‘Field strip?’

  ‘No,’ she says, staring at him with an altogether new expression. She places a box on the table with a factory-printed logo and the words 9 millimetre etched on the sides and top. Then he notices three sets of ear defende
rs on the table and looks past them both to the high wall of sandbags stacked further down the ledge.

  ‘Rounds cost money,’ she says, opening the first box to reveal the shiny brass bullets. ‘In the police we were limited to what we could fire in practice . . . but now’ – she ejects the magazine in her Glock and starts feeding the rounds into it – ‘now we don’t have to worry . . . and can fire as many as we want. Look over there.’

  Ben looks over to another table to see every type of pistol they have stripped and rebuilt resting on the top with cases of bullets next to each.

  ‘Put these on,’ she says in a blunt tone after showing him how to load a magazine and handing him a set of ear defenders. ‘Keep the safety on until you’re ready to fire. Slide back to bring the first round up into the chamber. Keep a two-handed grip and do not ever point the weapon at me or Harry. Point it down when you turn. Face down the range.’

  Ben picks the weapon up and adopts the two-handed grip that she and Harry are using while noticing the way she looks at him is different and the gentle tone in her voice has gone. He moves round the table carrying a loaded gun. They both track every movement he makes until he’s staring down the ad hoc shooting range at the wall of sandbags. She glances to Harry. He nods with an almost imperceptible movement. She places her gun down on the table and moves in close behind Ben, tugging the ear defender back from his right ear as her foot moves between his legs and starts kicking them out to widen his stance.

  ‘Open your legs. Bit more . . . stop, that’s fine.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks, turning towards her. ‘The croissants were really nice.’

  She doesn’t look at him. ‘Face down the range,’ she says curtly and leans round him until her body is pressing into his back. She reaches out to adjust his grip on the pistol. ‘Left hand here, right hand here. Relax and breathe normally. I’m going to watch you fire. If I tap your shoulder then stop firing. Understood?’ She doesn’t wait for the reply but pushes the defender back over his ear and taps his shoulder.

  He fires the weapon, feeling the immense jolt travel through his arms into his shoulders. The noise is incredible too, and far louder than he remembers from Holborn. He adjusts his grip a little and shuffles slightly then fires again and this time he notices the little puff in the air as the bullet hits the sandbags. He keeps going, feeling that violent recoil in his hands until the weapon clicks empty. He turns to notice they’re both watching him intently.

  ‘What?’ he asks, seeing her mouth move but not hearing the words. She tugs the defender from his ear again.

  ‘I said you don’t flinch,’ she says.

  ‘Am I meant to flinch?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘I’ve run out of bullets.’

  ‘Rounds.’

  ‘What are?’

  ‘The bullets are rounds.’

  ‘Oh. I’ve run out of them anyway.’

  ‘Load more then.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. Keep going.’

  ‘Thanks for the croissants—’

  ‘Ben!’ she snaps in irritation. ‘Focus.’

  ‘Okay, sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry, just bloody focus on what you’re doing.’

  He goes back to the table with his cheeks stinging from the rebuke and feeling even more childish. He loads up the magazine while they watch him closely. Safa now holding her pistol down at her side, one-handed, and just from the way she holds it you can tell she’s been around weapons a lot. Harry looks entirely at ease apart from still tracking every move Ben makes.

  Back at the line, Ben gets the grip, adjusts his feet and fires into the sandbags. He doesn’t really aim but more points and pulls the trigger. It’s a novelty and something different for a few minutes.

  ‘Try and aim now,’ she says. ‘Line the sights up like I told you before, you already know how to hold it. Squeeze the trigger, don’t pluck it or snatch it. Squeeze. Be confident but not cocky and aim properly.’

  ‘Okay.’ He loads up, turns back and shoots the sandbag wall.

  ‘I said try and aim,’ she says tightly.

  ‘I was.’ He shrugs and goes back for another go. The top tier of sandbags has the sky behind it so he sort of aims for the third tier down.

  ‘That’s not aiming. That’s pointing and shooting. Do it properly.’

  ‘Why are you snapping at me?’ he asks while pushing the little brass bullets into the magazine.

  ‘Because you’re not trying.’

  ‘I am. I’m trying.’

  ‘Try harder.’

  ‘What for?’

  She draws breath and looks away as though counting to ten before answering. ‘Because you need to learn how to shoot, that’s why.’

  ‘Why do I?’

  ‘Know what?’ she says, giving him a withering look. ‘Do what you want.’ She lifts and fires. Emptying her magazine with perfect shots that seem timed and precise. Harry does the same. Firing into the wall of sandbags with tiny adjustments made to his grip and stance.

  ‘Good,’ Harry shouts when he finishes the first magazine, nodding at the pistol in his hands. ‘Good weapon.’

  The morning passes. All three shooting sandbags as they work through the pistols on the table.

  Safa pins targets on to the sandbags but doesn’t give any instruction as to what Ben should aim for. He shoots them anyway and learns how to aim to get the bullet closer to the thing he wants to hit.

  At lunch they go into the main room. Ben sits down at the table in the usual funk of complete depression. It takes over five minutes before he realises she’s got a bowl of food for herself and is eating quietly. He feels the blush of shame in his cheeks at the expectation he had that she would get the food and drink for him. He feels so stupid that for a few seconds he doesn’t do anything but stay still and look down at his hands in his lap. Then time passes and it becomes too late to get any food as that would signify that he was waiting all this time for her to get it.

  ‘You not hungry?’ she asks eventually, but doesn’t look at him and in that second he gives up caring completely.

  ‘Yeah I am,’ he says, reaching out for a croissant. He does not give a shit. He never asked for this and he does not want to be here. He shifts the responsibility away and stares round in disdain at the fucking bare concrete walls he hates so much.

  ‘We’re staying in this afternoon,’ she says.

  ‘Awesome,’ he replies, not bothering to look at her.

  ‘We’ll do unarmed combat.’

  ‘Yeah?’ he asks, faking a sudden interest. She looks at him sharply, narrowing her eyes. ‘Enjoy that.’

  ‘Ben . . .’

  ‘What?’ He stares over the table at her then sees Harry shift position, hunching lower over his food with a grunt. ‘Problem?’ Ben asks him.

  Harry doesn’t reply but focuses on his food. They fall into silence. Ben drinks water, feeling a strange sense of liberation at not giving a flying fuck any more.

  ‘Ready?’ she asks once his water is drained.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on.’ She starts to rise as Harry scrapes his chair back.

  ‘Have fun,’ Ben says, pushing his chair back.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Outside to shoot paper targets.’

  ‘We’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Like I said, have fun.’

  ‘What the hell is your problem?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Ben, they’ll kill you. Is that what you want?’

  ‘Maybe I do.’ He pushes through the door into the corridor.

  ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ she shouts, running after him.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Don’t walk away from me.’

  ‘I’m going outside.’

  ‘You selfish prick.’ She grabs his arm, spinning him round on the spot. ‘We are training inside.’

 
‘No.’

  The fury in her face shows clear and true and the muscles in her jaw twitch as she grits her teeth. ‘We. Are. Training. Inside . . .’

  He leans forward in emphasis of expression. ‘No.’

  ‘Ben.’ She grabs his arm again, refusing to let him turn away. He doesn’t fight against her but stays passive and non-committal.

  ‘Go play heroes with Harry. I’m not interested.’

  ‘They saved your life.’

  ‘Then they can unsave it.’

  ‘Ben. You will die. Make no mistake about it. They will take you back and leave you there then it’s done. Over. You’re dead.’

  He shrugs and pulls a face, which just sends a deeper shade of red into her cheeks.

  ‘Selfish,’ she says, shaking her head with disdain. ‘You are a selfish man.’

  ‘Who cares?’

  ‘I DO.’ She flashes into rage, prodding him in the chest. ‘You will work. Do you understand? You will work.’

  ‘Stop pushing me.’

  ‘You will work to stay alive.’

  ‘I choose death.’

  ‘Grow up!’

  ‘I don’t want to be here . . .’

  ‘I don’t care what you want. You have to work.’

  ‘Stop fucking pushing me,’ he growls, but she jabs harder and faster.

  ‘Stop me,’ she shouts and jabs him into the wall. ‘Stop me. Do something. Get angry. React, for fuck’s sake.’ She jabs harder, driving him back so hard he bounces off the wall.

  ‘I do not want to be here.’

  ‘You are here.’

  ‘What do you care? Leave me alone. Go train with Harry and save the world because I ain’t doing it . . . stop it . . . stop pushing me, Safa. Stop fucking PUSHING ME . . . WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?’

  ‘YOU . . . I WANT YOU TO WORK!’

  ‘I won’t,’ he snarls, forcing his body against her finger that jabs into his chest. ‘I won’t work for you. I won’t work for Roland.’ He pushes forward again, forcing her to take a step back. ‘I won’t do it. I don’t want to do it. I want out. I’m sick of running and jumping and taking those fucking guns apart and being thrown on the mats and doing wristlocks and armlocks and eating fruit and eggs. I hate it. I hate this place. I want my life and if I can’t have my life then I’ll take my fucking death.’