‘It’s very wet rain,’ Safa says as Emily, Ben and Harry all nod and make sounds of agreement.
Miri stares at them from under the hood of the poncho. Only the British could say rain is wet and understand what it means. They can spend hours discussing and dissecting it. They have so many words for it too. Strange people, for sure.
They trudge back across the clearing on the wide plateau on top of the hill above the bunker. The Blue comes back into view slowly. Glimpsed through the rain before shining clearly. Ria stands next to it. Waiting for them in an army-green poncho with an M4 assault rifle gripped in her hands.
‘Hey,’ Ben calls ahead. ‘Chopper landed on me.’
‘Oh, well.’
‘Lots of sympathy then.’ Ben grins at her.
‘No,’ she says. ‘Why did we finish before you got back?’
‘I just said – the chopper landed on me.’
‘It’s not real,’ Ria says, tilting her head back to peer out from the hood.
‘He was being a dick,’ Safa says. ‘Did Bertie do the sound effects?’
‘Nope,’ Ria says. ‘I did.’
‘You did?’ Ben asks. ‘They were brilliant.’
She shrugs and stares round at them. Pain in her eyes masked and hidden. Her voice dull and lifeless.
‘We going through or chatting like twats in the rain?’ Safa asks.
‘Twats in the rain, I think,’ Ben says, smiling at Ria.
They pass through the light to a room only a few hundred metres away. Live connection, Bertie calls it. He did explain something about the manipulation of time so that it simply connects one place to another.
‘It’s all just binary,’ Ben mumbles, sighing as he moves from the rain to a dry room. Big towels stacked and waiting to dry hair, faces, hands and arms.
‘Is it getting less weird yet?’ Emily asks, looking at Ria.
She shrugs again. ‘Done it so many times now,’ she replies.
‘Say that again,’ Ben says. ‘We going to see Bertie later?’
‘Aye,’ Harry says. ‘Do with a bit of sunshine.’
‘I’m done,’ Emily says, hanging her poncho on a hook on the wall. ‘We going back out?’
‘Yep,’ Safa says to a chorus of groans.
‘Practice makes perfect,’ Miri says.
Rifles are dried off and stacked on metal shelves fitted to the wall. Harry detaches the box of blank firing ammunition in the belt feed from the heavy machine gun and works to clean the excess moisture off the weapon.
‘I’ll get the drinks ready,’ Ria says, walking from the room.
‘We can do it,’ Ben calls out. The sound of the inner door to the main room opening and closing comes clearly as he winces and tuts.
‘She’s fine,’ Emily says. ‘Let her do it.’
‘She’s not a slave,’ Ben says.
‘No,’ Emily says quietly, ‘but she just lost her mother and she’s now outside a hologram of her own home throwing flash-bangs and firing blanks at us while we practise shooting in to the place where her mother died . . . While knowing we can’t go inside and rescue her mother. I think the girl has the right to be weirded out.’
Ben widens his eyes, the corners of his mouth turned down. ‘That messes my head up, let alone hers.’
‘And you’ve had over six months to adapt,’ Emily says. ‘She’s had about a month.’
‘Work helps grief,’ Miri says, as flat and blunt as ever.
‘Blah, blah,’ Safa announces. ‘I’m going to get a drink.’
‘Safa, you talk to her,’ Ben says.
‘Not a chance,’ Safa says, stopping in the doorway.
‘She likes you,’ Ben says.
‘She likes me because I don’t keep asking her if she’s okay and if she wants a beanbag to sit on so she can cry and hug a fucking teddy.’
‘You’re brutal,’ Ben says, walking towards her.
‘You’re a bellend,’ she says, walking backwards. ‘Watch out, the prisoner is behind you.’
‘Still funny,’ Emily says, behind Ben.
Safa comes to a sudden stop as she pushes the door open to the main room to peer suspiciously. ‘Don’t tell me.’
‘I won’t,’ Ria says from the main table.
‘Got it,’ Ben says, smiling smugly at the others.
‘Hate you,’ Safa grumbles. ‘Sofa,’ she says, pointing at a huge dark-red leather sofa against the wall to her right.
‘That was here yesterday,’ Emily says. ‘We sat on it last night.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Safa says.
‘Table,’ Emily says, nodding at the small table next to the sofa against the wall.
‘No,’ Ria says.
‘Got it,’ Harry says, walking on towards the table.
‘Have you?’ Safa asks. ‘What is it then?’
‘Look,’ Harry says simply.
‘So annoying,’ Safa says, looking round. ‘That chair.’
‘No,’ Ben says.
‘That other sofa,’ Safa says.
‘No,’ Ben says.
‘New rug!’ Emily says, pointing at a red rug on the floor under the chair Safa pointed at.
‘No,’ Ben says.
‘Lampshades,’ Emily says, looking up at the tiffany-style shades fitted over the lights.
‘Two days ago,’ Ria says.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Safa grumbles.
Miri walks in, pauses, looks round and walks on. ‘Got it.’
‘Oh my god,’ Safa snaps.
Sofas. Armchairs. Pictures on the walls. Rugs on the floor. Standing lamps. Table lamps. New tables. New chairs to sit on when they eat at the new tables. Throws. Side tables. Coffee tables. Vases of flowers. An eclectic blend of shades and colours that all work in perfect harmony to make the big room look somewhere between a luxury hunting lodge and a Swiss chalet. Sumptuous, warm, homely and very inviting.
‘Can we give up? I really want a drink,’ Emily whispers to Safa.
‘Shall we pretend we know?’ Safa whispers back.
‘Got it!’ Emily announces.
‘Ha!’ Safa grins.
‘Twats,’ Ben says.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Safa mumbles.
‘Give up,’ Emily says.
‘New table,’ Ben says.
‘Where?’ Safa asks.
‘Oh, yes,’ Emily says, cocking her head over to look. ‘That’s really nice, Ria.’
Safa tracks the line of sight from Emily to Ria. She frowns, scowls, gets ready to call everyone a twat, then grins, sudden and wide. ‘Got it,’ she announces proudly.
‘Do you like it?’ Ria asks her, pausing mid-drink and making to look at Safa.
‘It’s alright,’ Safa says with a shrug, then clocks the glares coming from Ben and Emily. ‘Yes! I love it. It’s awesome.’
Ben groans. Harry rolls his eyes. Emily shakes her head.
‘It’s very table-like,’ Safa says, admiring the new table now holding their food, drinks, plates and eating stuff. ‘Wooden and . . . and . . . it looks flat.’
‘Oh god,’ Ben mumbles, turning away.
‘And sturdy,’ Safa adds. ‘Which is good for a table.’
‘It’s great,’ Harry rumbles, placing a huge hand on Ria’s shoulder. ‘Bunker looks lovely now, Ria.’
Ria smiles up at him. Seeing his genial face so broad and big and full of beard.
‘You’ll have to do my room,’ he says in the way of Harry – easy, steady, deep and so reassuring.
‘I’d love to,’ Ria says.
‘And mine,’ Safa says, coming to a stop on Ria’s other side. ‘Is that mine?’ She plucks a mug of coffee from the table. ‘But nothing weird though,’ she adds to Ria. ‘I like black,’ she says. ‘And white.’