The Bunker Diary

by Kevin Brooks

  6.30 p.m.

  Time for tea.

  Yippee.

  10.30 p.m.

  We’ve just had our first evening meeting. As it was my suggestion, I had the pleasure of collecting everyone’s notebooks and reading their escape ideas. Jenny was asleep, so there were only the four of us. Four people. Four pages.

  Apart from a neat little heading – ESCAPE – Anja’s page was blank.

  Bird had written – Dig??? Communicate

  Fred had suggested – Fire, note down bog

  And I’d written – Distraction. Distract him, hide someone in lift. How? Who?

  ‘Dig?’ I said to Bird. ‘We’re in a bloody basement. We’re underground. Where the hell are we going to dig to?’

  ‘Shhh!’ he hissed, pointing at the ceiling.

  ‘Dig,’ I muttered, shaking my head.

  ‘It was only a thought,’ Bird said defensively. ‘I was only, you know, brainstorming.’

  ‘You call that a brainstorm?’

  Fred laughed.

  Bird blushed. ‘All right, maybe it’s not such a good idea. But what about the other one? Communication. Why don’t we try talking to him?’

  ‘You think he’ll listen?’ I said.

  ‘We won’t know unless we try.’

  ‘I already have. I didn’t get very far.’

  ‘Maybe you didn’t do it properly. Communication is a delicate business. It’s not just a question of sending a message, you have to think about how the message is sent.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I said, pretending to think about it.

  ‘Content needs context,’ he said.

  ‘Of course it does.’

  He squinted at me. ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘No, I was just thinking. Maybe we could ask him for a laptop and then send him an email. Or better still, a text. Ask him for a mobile phone, ask him for his number, then text him a message. Do you think that might do it?’

  Bird gave me an exasperated look. ‘What’s the matter with you? Can’t you take anything seriously?’

  ‘You started it.’

  He sighed and shook his head, tutting at me like I was an idiot child. I don’t blame him really. It was a pretty childish thing to say. But I am a child, remember. I’m allowed to say childish things. It’s my job. And anyway, he did start it.

  He was sulking now.

  I shuffled through the rest of the notebooks and picked out Fred’s. I wasn’t sure what he meant by fire, but the other idea sounded promising. I wrote down – Fire’s too dangerous, but work on the message down the bog idea – and then passed the notebook around. Anja read it, shrugged, and passed it to Bird. Mr Sulky. I didn’t think he’d even bother to read it, but to his credit he took the notebook and studied the message, then wrote something down and passed it back to me.

  I glanced at him for a moment, feeling a tiny bit guilty, then I looked at the page. He’d written – We’d need a waterproof container, something that floats, small plastic bottle?

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Good idea. Let’s think about it.’

  Finally I passed my idea around, the one about hiding in the lift.

  I said, ‘I haven’t figured out all the details yet, but I’m working on it.’

  I got a couple of shrugs and a raised eyebrow from Fred.

  And that was about it.

  I ought to feel more hopeful, I suppose. At least we’re talking, thinking, doing something. We’re beginning to work together, and that’s good. Because, when you get right down to it, it’s us against him. The Man Upstairs. Mister Crazy. The Man With No Name. Call him what you like. Whoever He is, He holds all the cards. He’s got us right where He wants us. All we can do is try to make the most of what little we’ve got.

  And what have we got?

  Well, I suppose we’ve got the advantage of numbers. We’re five and He’s one. Five brains against one. And, if I’m right, it should soon be six. Six against one. Even better. Six brains against one. It’s not much, I know. I mean, they’re pretty mushy brains, and they’re probably going to get even mushier if we stay here much longer. But five or six mushy brains working together is a lot better than five or six mushy brains working on their own. Do you see what I mean? It’s like an ant thing. You know, like the difference between an individual ant and an ant colony. An ant on its own can’t do much, but when it gets together with all its ant-colleagues it can do almost anything. It can build cities, capture slaves and create underground gardens. It can rampage through the jungle eating everything in sight. That’s what we have to do, only on a slightly smaller scale.

  This evening was a start. It wasn’t the greatest of starts, but at least it was a start. We’re getting there. We’re improving our chances of getting out. Not a lot, I admit. I mean, we’re not ready for any rampaging just yet. But not a lot is a lot better than nothing.

  So, yeah, I ought to be feeling more hopeful. I ought to be feeling more optimistic, more positive.

  That’s how I ought to be feeling.

  The trouble is, deep down, I can’t help feeling it’s all a waste of time.

  Thursday, 9 February

  I was right, number six arrived this morning.

  It was my turn to meet the lift. I was standing in the corridor with a bag of rubbish in my hand, pondering my idea about escaping in the lift, when down it came, opened up, and there he was.

  His name’s Russell Lansing.

  I know him. At least, I know who he is. I’ve seen his photograph in the newspapers and on the back of his book, Time and Stuff: Natural Philosophy in the 21st Century.

  He was in the wheelchair, tied and gagged, but he was awake. His eyes were open. Scared, red and watery, but open. I wheeled him out and gently peeled the tape from his mouth.

  ‘Thank you,’ he gasped. ‘Where am I?’

  I started untying him. As I worked on the knots I explained as much as I could – the five of us, the lift, the food, the cameras and microphones. It all sounded pretty weird. It’s strange how you can get used to something and not realize how peculiar it is until you start talking about it. I know I’ve been talking to you for the last few weeks, but that’s different. That’s silent talking. This was real talking.

  Russell listened patiently as I told him the story, not saying anything until I’d finished.

  Then all he said was, ‘I see.’

  Very calm.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked him.

  He nodded, rubbing his wrists and looking around. ‘Drugged, I believe. No physical injuries.’ He looked at me. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Nearly two weeks.’

  ‘Two weeks?’

  ‘Seems a lot longer.’

  ‘I’ll bet it does.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Is there a bathroom I can use? I must have been sitting in this chair for about four hours.’

  ‘Yeah. Can you walk?’

  ‘I think so.’

  He tried getting out of the chair, but halfway up he winced painfully and closed his eyes, then sat back down again and took a couple of deep breaths.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he said.

  ‘No problem.’

  I wheeled him down the corridor to the bathroom. As we went, his eyes never stopped moving, studying the walls, the ceiling, the doors, the floor. Everything.

  ‘What’s behind these doors?’ he asked.

  ‘Rooms.’

  ‘Is that where the others are?’

  ‘They’ll be sleeping,’ I told him. ‘We tend to stay in bed a lot. They’ll be up soon for breakfast.’

  ‘Breakfast?’

  ‘We’re very
civilized.’

  He smiled.

  I said, ‘You’re Russell Lansing, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am indeed.’

  ‘I’m Linus Weems.’

  ‘Weems?’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve read your book.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘I really liked it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I didn’t know what else to say. I felt a bit embarrassed, to tell you the truth. A bit sappy, like a little kid talking to his favourite pop star. I was glad the others weren’t around. Despite the embarrassment it was a nice little moment, and I wanted it all to myself. I’d found him. I knew who he was. I’d read his book. He was mine.

  ‘Here we are,’ I said. ‘This is the bathroom. Can you make it from here?’

  ‘I think so.’

  I helped him out of the chair.

  ‘There’s a sheet on the back of the door,’ I said. ‘To hide yourself from the camera.’

  ‘There’s a camera in the bathroom?’

  I nodded. ‘If you slip the sheet over your head he can’t see you.’

  ‘Right. Well, thank you.’

  I watched him walk slowly into the bathroom and shut the door. He’s old, nearly seventy I’d guess. His black skin is dull and grey and his hair is all brittle and white. I remember reading somewhere that he does a lot of work with AIDS charities, that he has the disease himself, that he’s dying.

  I can believe that.

  Over breakfast he told us all what had happened.

  ‘It was my own fault,’ he said. ‘I met a fellow in a bar. I let him buy me a few drinks, and then I rather foolishly agreed to accompany him home. I think I did anyway. I was rather befuddled at the time.’

  Fred laughed. ‘Befuddled?’

  Russell held his hand out, palm upwards. He raised it slowly, paused, then turned it over and brought it down flat on the kitchen table.

  Fred grinned.

  I wasn’t sure what he was grinning at, but I joined him anyway. It felt like the right thing to do. It felt good. Then I looked round the table at the others and my smile faded. Anja and Bird had been giving Russell funny looks ever since I’d introduced him. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t much care. But the way they were looking at each other now, shaking their heads and exchanging disapproving glances, it really bugged me for some reason.

  ‘Something on your mind?’ I asked Bird.

  He looked at me, sniffed, then turned to Russell. ‘This man you met in the bar,’ he said coldly. ‘Did you get a close look at him?’

  ‘Close enough.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  Russell gave it some thought. After a while he said, ‘Charming … manipulative … persuasive … intelligent … endearingly bland. In hindsight, a classic psychopath.’

  ‘Description?’

  ‘Middle-aged, dark hair, about five feet ten inches tall. Well built, but not overly muscular. Strong hands. Clean-shaven. Lightly tinted spectacles. Charcoal suit, white shirt, burgundy tie. Black slip-on shoes, burgundy socks.’

  Bird looked sceptical. ‘You remember all that?’

  ‘I’m a physicist. I’m trained to observe.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Bird scoffed. ‘That’s what you were doing, was it? Hanging round bars observing other men.’

  Russell looked at him. ‘I’m gay, Mr Bird. Is that a problem?’

  ‘No … no, of course not. I was just saying …’

  Fred let out a snort of laughter. ‘Jesus! You’re black and you’re bent?’

  It wasn’t the most subtle way of putting it, and I was half-expecting Russell to lose his temper and storm off or something, but he didn’t seem to mind at all. He just looked at Fred and smiled. Fred smiled back at him. Then, without a word, Russell put his hand to his eye, lowered his head, and dug around with his fingers. After a moment he looked up again and held out his hand. Where his eye had been there was now just an empty socket, and in his hand there was a smooth glass bauble.

  ‘Not only black and bent, my friend,’ he said to Fred, ‘but one-eyed to boot.’

  Late evening.

  Mixed emotions.

  I like Russell. I like his calm, his insight, his sadness. I like his humour. I like the way he accepts things. It gives us balance. It gives me balance. I’m not sure why. It’s probably got something to do with him being smart. He’s a very clever man, Russell. He knows stuff. And I like that. I like it because I’m smart too, and we all like things that remind us of ourselves. I’m not saying I’m a genius or anything. I mean, I don’t know as much as Russell, obviously. In fact, there’s plenty of stuff I don’t know the first thing about. But I’m well educated. I’ve been taught how to think. So even if I don’t know the facts about something I can usually work out how to think about it. And that’s what being smart is – knowing how to think. Facts are all well and good, but they don’t mean anything if you don’t know what to do with them.

  Anyway, I’m smart. That’s all I’m saying. I feel an affinity with Russell because I’m smart. It’s no big deal. I’m not bragging or anything. It’s just what I am. We’re all something. I’m smart. Fred’s strong. Jenny’s kind. Anja’s beautiful. Bird’s … fat. We all have our qualities, and none of them are any better or worse than the others. They’re just different.

  At this evening’s meeting Russell didn’t have a lot to say. None of us did. There were no new ideas, no suggestions, no eurekas. Bird seemed preoccupied with something and hardly said a word. Anja had a headache and retired to her room. Even Fred seemed unnaturally quiet. The only one who had anything constructive to say was Jenny. When I showed her the escape ideas from last night she quickly looked over the pages, moving her lips as she read, then she jabbed her finger at my distraction idea and said, ‘That one. The rest are useless.’

  I couldn’t help smiling. ‘What about Fred’s?’

  ‘Which one’s that?’

  I showed her the idea about putting a message down the lavatory.

  She read it again, looked at Fred, then giggled.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘It’s a good idea.’

  ‘It won’t work –’ she started to say.

  ‘Shh,’ I said. ‘Write it down. Here.’ I passed her a pen and a piece of paper.

  She bent low to the table and shielded the page with her arm. Her tongue poked out from her lips as she wrote: What will the mesage say? We don’t know anything. We don’t know where we are or anything. Whats the point of writing a mesage when we don’t know what to write?

  I showed it to the others.

  We looked at each other.

  ‘Shit,’ said Fred. ‘She’s right.’

  Jenny smiled proudly.

  After the meeting Russell said he’d like a word with me. I made some coffee and took it into his room. He’s in room six. As I was shutting the door Bird passed by, heading down the corridor towards his room, number four.

  ‘Watch yourself in there,’ he smirked.

  I ignored him and shut the door. When I turned round, Russell was lowering himself gingerly to the bed. He looked to be in some pain.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said, indicating the chair. ‘Please, sit down.’

  I sat.

  Russell sipped his coffee and stared at the grille in the ceiling. ‘Damnable thing,’ he said eventually.

  ‘What, the camera?’

  ‘All of it. Everything. This place … all of you … that poor little girl …’ His voice trailed off and he shook his head. ‘I saw her parents on television. It’s all very disturbing.’

  I d
idn’t say anything. I didn’t feel the need to say anything. I just sat there. It was quiet. The walls hummed. The time passed. After a while Russell looked up and cocked his head.

  ‘That humming sound, is it always there?’

  I nodded.

  He listened. He looked at the grille in the ceiling, then put his hand against the wall.

  ‘Small generator,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Four-cylinder, diesel engine.’ He took his hand away and looked at me. ‘This is quite an operation.’

  ‘You think so?’

  He looked around, nodding. ‘Most impressive. It must have taken an awful lot of time and money.’

  ‘What do you think this place is?’ I asked him. ‘A basement? Do you think we can get out? What do you think –?’

  ‘Whoa,’ he said gently, holding up a hand.

  ‘Sorry. You must be tired.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m always tired. I’m old.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘I’ll have a good look round tomorrow and we’ll see what we’re up against. Perhaps you’d like to give me the guided tour?’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  We lapsed into silence again.

  After a while the silence was broken by a faint sobbing sound from the room next door. Anja. Her cries were muffled, as if she had her head buried in a pillow.

  Russell cleared his throat. ‘The young lady …’

  ‘Anja.’

  ‘Anja, yes. Is she involved with Mr Bird?’

  ‘Involved?’

  ‘I heard them talking earlier on. The walls are quite thin. He was in her room.’

  ‘They spend a lot of time together.’

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps more than Anja wants.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He shrugged. ‘She asked him to leave her alone. She sounded rather upset.’