‘Black and white?’ Ria asks.
‘Or some other colours,’ Safa says. ‘Not shit ones though. Actually, do Emily’s first cos she’s got good taste, then . . . Actually, no, you got good taste too, so do what you want, go nuts. Pass an apple over, cheers . . . Is it weird being outside your hologram house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bet it is,’ Safa says, holding the apple in one hand and the mug of coffee in the other. ‘We’re in a bunker in dinosaur times and the prisoner that tried to kill us is now my bezzer mate. Everything’s weird. How’s your brother anyway? Still batshit crazy?’
Twenty-Six
She was here before. Many years ago. She knew it would still be here. Only time and the evolution of the world will ever take this place away.
She arrives on the ninth floor below ground level to the same repugnant stench of damp, rotten air. She has varied the arrival location each time. Yesterday was the eighth floor below ground level. The day before was the tenth. She has the coordinates for different places on each floor.
She came here when it was still the old Soviet Union. That was back in the day. Now she is here again but this is different. For a start, the objective is a whole bunch more serious, and her resources are a whole bunch less.
A small torch lights the way as she moves out of the cell and into the main walkway. Each room was designed to hold people in the event of a nuclear or chemical attack. Four to a room the size of an average American prison cell. The Russians didn’t buy into the concept of personal space. They would have crammed tens of thousands in here over the ten floors buried deep beneath the ground, each floor a vast network of rooms and corridors. They said it was to save people, but never answered why each room had a door lockable from the outside.
It felt weird coming back here, but she knew it was one of the only places in the world safe enough for the task in mind. No one comes here now. The razor-wire topped fences surrounding the vast grounds outside stop most. The external doors are welded shut too, so only someone with serious intent and serious equipment would break through.
She finds the stairs and treads down with the faint echo of her boots on each step. It would be pitch black without the torch. A complete absence of light. A total darkness that would freak out the hardest of people.
She sees the light spill as soon as she turns the corner. A glow ahead that seems to be fighting the darkness for the right to live and exist.
‘MIRI?’
Desperation in the voice. Fear too.
‘MIRI? I CAN’T TAKE THIS . . .’
She walks on towards the light. Purposefully treading harder to create sound that will signify her approach.
‘MIRI!’
He’s freaking out. She knows he recognises her footfall, but the fear inside his mind will be driving him crazy. His imagination running wild.
‘MIRI! THIS IS INHUMANE . . .’
She stops and waits with her torch pointing down so the light doesn’t reach the area he can see.
Roland stares through the bars. His face covered in days of growth. His once-lacquered hair now in clumps. Bags under his eyes. Cheeks sunken. His hands tremble as he grips the bars and tries to see down the corridor.
He screams out in fright when she steps from the blackness into the pool of light outside the cell. His heart thunders. His nerves frayed. He is almost at breaking point. Almost.
‘Roland,’ Miri says, lifting her hand to show him the pistol gripped steady and unwavering. ‘Move back.’
‘Miri, please . . . I can’t stay here.’ He sobs the words out, tears spilling down his dirt-encrusted cheeks.
She stares at him. Devoid of expression. He has cleaning materials. He has a safety razor. Water, food, supplies, reading materials and enough comfort to keep him occupied and safe. The fact he isn’t washing or taking care of himself is down to him and him alone.
‘Okay,’ she says flatly, and moves to drag a wooden chair into the pool of light.
‘No, sorry, sorry,’ he whimpers, moving back from the bars.
‘I will stay here.’ She sits on the chair and rests the notepad on her knees.
‘No, please, please, come in . . . I can . . . I can make it cleaner . . .’ He rushes off to move bits of litter and empty tins across the floor. His movements frantic and rushed. His whole manner now showing complete servitude.
‘From the beginning,’ she says, opening the notepad and clicking her pen.
‘Miri, please . . . I can’t take it here anymore . . .’
‘From the beginning.’
‘I CAN’T DO THIS,’ he screams out, animalistic and full of rage. He lunges at the bars. His face twisted in fury. ‘You can’t do this to me . . .’
She waits with her pen hovering over the notepad, then checks her nails and flicks a tiny piece of dust away from the tip of one finger.
‘Miri . . . I’m begging you . . .’ An instant switch to pleading. The tears come again. Sobbing as his chest heaves. ‘Please . . .’ His voice becomes a hoarse whisper. He even starts sliding down the bars, as though ready to collapse, but his eyes dart to take in her lack of reaction. ‘CUNT,’ he screams out.
A month to the day since they extracted him and his children. Leaving him in the bunker with the others was not an option for Miri. She needed him sterile and away from everyone else. She needed him starting to break. She needed him made weak and reduced to base human traits.
The cell was stocked with supplies and enough batteries to ensure the lights never went out. Enough food to grow fat and enough drink to never grow thirsty. That was all part of the mind game. A show of care with soft touches that contrasted so starkly with the horrific location and the ongoing captivity.
Miri lets the emotions play out. He did the same yesterday. He flits between denial, rage, impotent threats, then to begging, pleading and offering money, wealth and anything she could ever want. She’s heard it all before, and not just from him. This alone shows his staggering ineptitude. He invited her into this game. Roland came to her and asked for her help. What did he think would happen?
Miri doesn’t say a word, but waits with the pen hovering over the notepad. Her posture is perfect. Her back ramrod straight. It hurts her to sit for any length of time like this, but she chooses to be read in a certain way right now, and that way is unforgiving.
‘Fine,’ he gasps while sitting on the floor to slump like a child. ‘I killed myself. My son invented a time machine to go back and stop me killing myself. Someone broke the world. I extracted Ben, Safa and Harry, and now here we are. All done? Happy now, you evil fucking vile, treacherous, nasty . . .’
‘Properly. From the beginning.’
‘Miri, please.’ He sobs. His whole world crumbling around him. To stay another night in this place is too much. The noises he hears. The demons in the shadows. The monsters watching him. His mind warping from the loss of knowing where he is in time and space.