But soon nausea and fear join us.
The moon is halfway through its cycle so things are bad but not really bad. I’ve not been inside at night for a long time, though. I jiggle my feet. Then I jiggle my body. This helps the panicky feeling but not the nausea. I roll on to my side but keep jiggling and crawl into the corner and push my head into it. Some of the time I jiggle, some of the time I don’t.
I bring up watery vomit, but there’s not much of it. I haven’t eaten since breakfast but my stomach retches repeatedly. There’s nothing to come out but it clenches and turns and I’m coughing up nothing, but still my stomach wants to get rid of something.
Then the noises start. I hear hissing and banging but I’m not sure if I’m imagining them or if they’re real noises. The hissing is horrible, persistent; the bangs make me jump they’re so loud. I try to anticipate them but I can’t. All I can do to help is to shout. Shouting drowns out the noises, but I can’t keep it up all night. I’m sick again and I lie with my head pressed in to the corner and I hum and jiggle and shout back at the noises from time to time when they make me jump.
It’s dawn. The cell is still dark, but the nausea and noises leave as quickly as they arrived.
No one comes.
I should make a plan but I’m too exhausted to think of one.
Still no one comes.
I try to rest. I’m hungry. My mouth tastes disgusting. Will they bring food and water? Or will they forget about me and leave me here to die?
They have remembered me. They have brought water but not remembered that I need to eat as well. They have forgotten my name too.
I can’t seem to remember it either.
‘I’ll ask you once more to state your name.’ The young witch has stopped saying please.
I’m going with my usual plan, the one where I say nothing. It’s not the most sophisticated plan; it’s bound to cause irritation and it’s not likely to have a profound effect on anything that will ultimately happen. But at least it’s a plan.
I stare back at her, taking in her appearance from the top of her neatly brushed mousy hair, past her small pale-blue eyes, perfectly applied mascara, smooth thin coating of foundation and precisely painted pink lipstick. Her narrow frame is well dressed in a beige suit, tights, black patent shoes. She looks like she’s made an effort and she looks like she’s had a decent night’s sleep. She is even wearing perfume, which is floral.
And the more I look the more overcome I am by her appearance, her prettiness and her basic, cruel stupidity. She is dressed for some business meeting and I’ve been kept in a cell.
And I now have a new plan. I slouch on one hip and leaning forward slightly towards her I say, ‘My name is Ivan. Ivan Shukhov.’
The woman looks a little confused and irritated. She’s probably trying to work out if it’s some sort of rhyming slang.
‘No, you are Nathan Byrn. Son of Cora Byrn and Marcus Edge.’
I lean back and try to sound casual. ‘Nah, I’m Ivan. You must be after the guy in the next cell.’
‘There isn’t anyone in the next cell.’
‘You mean he’s escaped?’
She pulls her lipsticked lips into a smile, perhaps to show she has a sense of humour.
‘We just need to ensure that you are aware of what is happening.’
‘Course I’m aware of what is happening.’ That wasn’t at all casual and I have to recover my tone. ‘I’ve been treated like a king by the wonderful Council of White Witches. Fed the best food, given the best bed and –’ I lean forward again – ‘been introduced to the most charming, freshly smelling White Witches.’ The guard pulls me back by one arm. ‘My name is Ivan Shukhov, and I am aware of what is happening. Are you?’
‘You are not Ivan Somethingorother. You are Nathan Byrn and you are going to be codified.’
‘I’ve no idea what that means.’
Her eyes are cold, fixed on me, pale blue shimmers glacially in pale blue.
‘It doesn’t sound too good,’ I say. ‘I kind of feel sorry for this Nathan guy.’
‘You are Nathan.’
‘What does codified mean? I’d like to tell Nathan if I see him.’
‘It’s a sophisticated tattoo.’
‘I can’t imagine you think any tattoos are sophisticated.’
She smiles. ‘This one is. Mr Wallend has been working on the potion for some time.’
‘What is the tattoo?’
‘It’s your code, of course.’
I lean forward and the guards grab my arms and hold them back. ‘A brand, you mean.’
She opens the pink lips on her beautifully made-up face to speak again and I spit at them. The gob lands perfectly.
She screams and splutters, rubbing at her mouth. The guards hold me back.