by Stuart Keane
The wall was made of stone, its surface felt similar to the wall in the previous room. As he moved he touched it reluctantly, wary of contacting material he couldn’t see. Every part of his being was alert to the horror of touching an insect or some live animal. Rupert realised he was on the edge of keeping control now, and he knew he wasn’t far from being pushed into a panic. The tunnel was getting darker, the blue light gone.
Twenty feet further, Rupert saw a glimpse of light. Nothing huge, no more than a pinprick, but it was concentrated. Like a hole in a wall or a crack in a floor. Except it was vertical. Adjusting his eyes to mute the brightness, he realised it was a diamond shape.
A window?
He had seen enough diamond-shaped windows on people’s front doors in his time to know that it was exactly what he was looking at. He estimated a distance of seventy feet. A smile crept over his face, for a second, and disappeared. He pushed on further. His feet, bare as they were, trudged over a cold stone floor, which soon became soggy.
Rupert yelped at the sudden change of sensation and leapt back. He paused. Kneeling down, he held his hands out in front of him, and for what seemed like an eternity, his fingertips investigated the original stone floor he had become accustomed to.
Seconds later, they moved along, and touched softness. He pulled back and tried to feel the floor again. He felt small wisps of something weightless and soft between his fingers, they tickled the skin there and the insides of his palms. He placed his hand flat down and felt dampness. Soft loose lumps became attached to his palm as he lifted it and sniffed his hand.
Soil.
He had touched grass.
He looked around him and saw nothing but darkness. Judging by the lack of starlight or wind or anything remotely resembling the open air, he assumed he was inside some kind of structure. Grass indoors?
That’s a new one, he thought.
Rupert stepped onto the grass and it brought back memories of when he was a child, running around in his back garden with no shoes on, kicking a beach ball, and then playing with action figures inside his cosy, nice-smelling, play house. He felt nine years old again. The sensation of the grass beneath his feet was identical.
When he opened his eyes, he groaned. What he would give to be back in his childhood garden again. Rather than this….place!
What incarnation of hell is this? He wondered.
He pressed on slowly, still cautious of his surroundings and where he might be. Working his way across the grass he moved with the same pace as before, aware he was getting soil on his feet and between his toes. It actually soothed him a little before the grass stopped.
Rupert didn’t see it at first, and had he been moving any faster it would have been the last thing he didn’t notice before it killed him.
In his pursuit to get to the diamond of light, to his shock, he found that the floor had given way beneath him, as if he had stepped off a cliff or a steep step. His rear trailing leg held firm and he fell backwards before he tumbled forwards. Rupert found that his rump was on grass, but his legs hung over an unseen ledge. He lay back, still, making sure all movement had ceased before he sat up, and touching beneath him to make sure he had enough support, he pulled his legs back. The breath shot out of him and he felt as if his heart was about to explode in his chest. He lay on the grass, sweat pouring from him. He felt as if he might die.
After a moment, Rupert shifted himself around so that his head was nearer the edge of the floor. Then he reached out a hand and felt around carefully. He touched nothing, for a long time. Seconds later, his hand tapped something wooden, about two feet below the level of the floor. It gave a hollow clonk as his fingers made contact. He moved his hand back, not realising where it had been at first, then missed it three times before he tapped it again. He clasped his fingers around it and found it to be a shaft, about ten centimetres in diameter. The shaft continued down beyond the full extent of his reach. He pulled his hand back and felt another shaft, then another. They were equidistant from one another.
With fear in his heart, he ran his hand to the top of it. The shaft tapered as it neared the top. Then he felt nothing but thin air. Opening his palm, he moved it downwards, just as he had done when trying to locate the grass, and felt a sharp jab. The shaft narrowed into a point at its tip. He tested the other shaft that was within reach and it felt just the same. He couldn’t swallow, his throat apparently clogged with fear.
He was above a pit of spikes.
The thought of countless adventure films plagued his brain. Rupert had never been abroad in his life, let alone visited anywhere that was in any way reminiscent of that kind of film. Those epics took place in the desert, or the ocean, or in mountains taller than city landscapes.
Rupert had never travelled to any such place.
He pushed the thought from his mind, the realisation that wherever he was, he was there and nothing could change that. He longed for it to be a dream instead of a living nightmare. His attention returned to the spikes before him. It was unheard of to see one of these in an urban environment. Rupert had seen documentaries about these sort of traps. Tribes in the jungle used them to catch food or prey or the enemy.
Commonly they were a plot device in films, usually thrown in the path of a fleeing victim. A primitive contraption, savage and brutal. Designed long before the advent of machinery and guns and technological weapons. It was the kind of thing that was still found buried under grass in South America to this very day. A deadly primitive trap that was unfeeling and vicious.
And he had nearly walked straight into it.
Rupert sat up and leaned against the cold wall, safe in the knowledge it wasn’t going anywhere. The diamond of light was bigger now. He knew it lay beyond the spike-filled chasm, and he needed to get there. But how was he going to get across?
***
The first man frowned. The last few minutes had made his pulse race. His ‘wager’ had come out of the room, wandering almost trustingly, despite not knowing what lay beyond. He had felt for certain that the man would stumble aimlessly into the trap he had paid a thousand dollars for. But he hadn’t, the man was now sitting with his back to the wall. Doing nothing. Thinking, maybe, the observer thought.
His victim had discovered the trap. He would find a way to evade it. The man knew this, because he had also paid for a bridge to cross the chasm, he could see it as clear as day in the night vision on the screen. It was way off to the right, on the opposite side of the tunnel.
The gambler stroked his stubbly chin, brushing his fingers against his white clerical collar.
THREE
Francisco De Goya was sweating profusely.
His breath stung his airways and his body was starting to feel a little ragged and tight. He sat back down on his dingy bunk, making a huge squeaking noise, caused by the seat’s rusty springs. He held his head in his sweaty palms and began to calm himself, rubbing his temples and running his hands through his long, well-maintained mane of hair. He took a deep breath and breathed out.
Then he looked up.
It had taken an hour to do, and a lot of hard manual work, but he’d succeeded in his goal. He guessed it had been about two hours since he had woken up in this dark room. Not a room as such, a broom cupboard with a bunk and a stinking urinal. The initial shock had long since subsided when he realised he was being held captive. He felt panic at first, but knew that he was here for a reason. Logic dictated that he wasn’t going anywhere until someone told him he was going to be released.
He had no reason to be afraid. If he was going to die, Francisco De Goya, twenty seven years of age and unemployed, would have been killed by now. His drug-induced slumber presented every opportunity for someone to shuffle him off the mortal coil. No, he was here for a reason. He had an opportunity to live. The reason for that was indeterminable right now. But he knew, deep down in his gut, that his options were hopeful ones.
He didn’t intend to stay around to find out.
Fair enough, h
e was alive now. Not dead, but of course things could change. The human mind is a fragile, yet complex little tool. It wouldn’t take much for the person who’d ordered his imprisonment to change their mind and have him killed. Whoever had put him here, keeping him powerless, was obviously a careful person. Francisco wouldn’t be able to fight back from a comatose state. Francisco wouldn’t object to being stuck in a room without light, food or water if he was unconscious.
He also knew he was dealing with a coward.
A shitfaced, snivelling, little cunt of a man.
Who would find an empty room when he came back to retrieve his ‘trophy’.
Francisco had lost his shoes and most of his belongings, including his mobile telephone and his iPod, but he had been left with one thing, a solitary item, and it was in his breast pocket.
Maybe they had overlooked this item, who knows? He thought.
All he knew was that it was a vital tool.
His Parker ballpoint pen.
Being unemployed meant filling out form after form after form. Francisco liked to be presentable for his job hunting and the relevant applications. Smart suit, smart look, smart apparatus. Yes, his pen was his pride and joy at this precise moment in time. At that moment he knew he would never take his preparations for visiting a Job Centre for granted again.
He looked up at the grimy window above him. It stood at head height, hidden by dirt. A rub of his hand had cleaned the muck from the pane, even so, it shed sparse amounts of light into the room. And doing so had left his hand black with dirt.
Worth it, he thought.
The sealant strip of rubber around the glass in the window was now on the floor below. Good old Parker pen. You never know when it might come in handy.
The pane was loose. Francisco stood and worked the pane free from its frame and placed it on the floor behind him. The cool night air rushed in and filled the room with its pleasant odour.
Francisco shut his eyes for a moment, revelling in the fresh air and the gradual dissipation of the urine smell. The breeze felt heavenly on his sweaty parched skin, and he opened his mouth to let saliva form so that he didn’t feel so drained and thirsty. He peered out of the window, trying to figure out if he knew his surroundings or not. He saw nothing but moonlight. He tapped his knuckles on the wall surrounding the window and its ledge to test its strength.
The wall seemed firm and rugged. It would hold his weight. Breathing out, he put his foot on the urinal beside him and hoisted himself up. The opening was about two feet away from him. He would need to grip the wall’s edge and swing himself across to the window ledge without falling to the floor.
Awkward.
Francisco gripped hard and swung, but he slipped to the floor in a heap of scrabbling limbs. He’d grazed his forearm on the way down. Landing on his rump with a thud, he rolled over, stood up and jumped up and down in fury.
Moron, he raged to himself, you’ve been out cold for too long!
You need blood in your veins and your arm muscles need to warm up.
Francisco held onto the bunk and stretched, flexed his arms and legs, and sprinted on the spot. After a few minutes he stopped dead, and looked at the window. Sweat was running down his neck. The room was humid despite the new opening.
Climbing on the bunk, he bounced a few times to test its strength. It looked dingy but it felt firm. Francisco counted his bounces. On number twelve he leapt as far as his legs would take him, aiming for the open window.
His body arched forward and his head shot through the gap.
His breath was smashed out of his lungs when his stomach collided with the ledge, and the weight of his legs started to pull him downwards. But he was halfway out of the room; there was no going back now.
Francisco’s arms were stretched out in front of him. He scrambled for a grip on something, anything, that might hold his weight. Rough concrete scratched at his forearms as he swung them around in vain. Small pebbles and stones shot randomly towards him, so many that he had to turn his head away to avoid them getting in his eyes. Finally, after a few moments, his hand settled on some kind of bar, which felt loose. But it held.
Slowly, Francisco pulled himself out of the window, inch by inch, his bare chest and stomach scraping along the brittle concrete beneath him as he climbed out, but he didn’t care. He felt grit and dirt sticking to his sweaty torso. His muscles felt as if they would explode out of his skin. Only when his legs were clear of the small hole he had emerged from did he feel the ground with his hands, then he was able to fall flat. His palms were red with the friction.
But he was free!
He rolled over and looked up at the sky. He smiled for the first time in days. He even laughed.
I’m free!
“Fuck you, fuck you, you fucking fucks!” he yelled.
Then he stopped smiling, his mind cleared and his worrying thoughts came back to him, his fears that were worse than the captivity and the dingy room and the small, basement window and his grazed skin and his freedom.
A realisation of utter dread.
Francisco De Goya, twenty seven, unemployed, and a modern day Houdini, stood up and cringed. He had to push the terrible thought out of his mind, as nausea set in.
He looked around, and knew he had to find a way out.
His jelly-like legs carried him slowly, until he picked up the rhythm and jogged at a slow pace, then faster.
He had to find his wife and daughter.
***
The final man in the group didn’t smile. He never smiled. Smiling implied friendliness, which in turn implied that he was approachable and again, in turn, suggested that he was willing to negotiate.
He was none of these things.
And most of all, he never smiled because pleasing others was not compatible with what he felt inside, in his brain and heart and blood. Why share anything with everyone else when self-gratification was simply much better?
He placed his milkshake on the desk and looked at his monitor. Saw the image of the empty room before him, the open window where the man had escaped a mere moment beforehand. He clicked a button on his keyboard and the image changed to a much brighter one. An exterior scene. And seconds later, he once again saw the man, this time outside, lying on the ground. He saw him smile and he saw him laugh. The observer imagined flipping him the bird, but he didn’t. Seconds later, the individual stood up and started running away from his camera. Another keyboard interaction allowed a view of the man being pursued on satellite cameras.
He wasn’t getting away.
A fulfilling sense of self-gratification returned once again.
Ten grand for a Parker pen was totally worth it.
FOUR
Rupert Shaw hadn’t moved for fourteen minutes.
He wasn’t sure as to why, whether it was the acceptance of defeat or because he was finally out of the room and his claustrophobia was no longer an issue. Maybe the adrenaline had worn off and now he was going to revert back to his normal shy, cowardly self. Rupert Shaw shook his head and placed it between his hunched knees.
Fuck…stupid coward.
The mystery behind the chasm gnawed at his consciousness.
How wide, how deep, how long was it? he wondered.
How many spikes were in it? Who’d put such a pit there? Why was he so scared to come to terms with this situation?
Rupert wondered if he could cross it at all. The spikes were touchable from his position so the drop couldn’t be that far. Maybe he could slip into the chasm between the spikes and make his way round them until he reached the other side?
Maybe I would break both my legs just climbing in.
Maybe the spikes aren’t the only dangers.
Perhaps there are snakes, spiders, scorpions or poisonous frogs or wild animals?
No, he thought. This is the United Kingdom, you fool, they don’t have those creatures here.
Well, he went on thinking to himself. You thought they didn’t have bamboo spikes either. Or grass in
doors. The United Kingdom doesn’t prevent people from roaming free, and it’s not a country where you get slammed up inside cages and allowed to go on random escapades in tunnels with no shoes on!
On the other hand, suppose he wasn’t in the United Kingdom?
The thought sent more chills up his spine.
Rupert Shaw thought he might begin to cry again. The prickly heat behind his eyes told him so. But he held back, reasoning that crying would get him absolutely nowhere. Don’t be such a pussy all your life, he thought, embrace this, do something about it. Here is your chance to redeem yourself for once.
He stood up and leaned against the safety of the wall behind him. He toyed with the idea of climbing into the pit beside the spikes and working his way through. It was a good idea, a genius idea.
Only one thing bugged him.
Removing his watch, he crept to the edge of the chasm and stood poised. He took a breath and dropped the watch into the chasm. He expected a clunk, within seconds, to signal the bottom of the chasm was only five feet below him.
He heard nothing.
For about fifteen seconds, silence greeted him. Then he heard a faint clunk as his watch touched ground.
What a waste of a good watch.
His heart sank. Quarter of a minute is a good depth: for a watch of that weight to reach the bottom, it had to be about a couple hundred feet, if not more. If he climbed in, he would die hitting all the shafts on the way down before his broken corpse hit the ground.
He was trapped.
Rupert Shaw dropped to his knees.
And began to cry.
Old habits die hard.
There was no possible way out of this situation. He would die here today, tear-stained and alone, (and shoeless, don’t forget shoeless), his body would be discovered maybe a year from now, maybe two, maybe five. Hell, maybe never.
Maybe he wouldn’t be missed by anyone he knew, not least his mother, who, let’s face it, since she was likely to be on a drip for the rest of her life, probably wouldn’t even notice he was gone. He never visited anyway, he wished he had now. He would do anything to be next to his wheezing old mum now, holding her cold, motionless hand, watching her still body at so much peace yet having to cope with so much pain. He would even change places with her right now. At least he would know his fate.
