by Kane, Paul
“No, not again. Hey, over here! Me, it’s me who wants to talk to you.” The bars of the cage are suddenly crackling with electricity that knocks me backwards. At the same time Kavi’s shackles tighten, hoisting him up and backwards so that he is slammed against the rear of the cage: his body forms a perfect X.
Shaking my head, I see that it’s not a pistol they’ve taken out this time, but some kind of thick noose on the end of a metal stick.
Effortlessly, they loop the open end around Kavi’s head, around his neck, and with a twist they tighten it. The muscles of Kavi’s arms bulge, but the shackles binding him allow no leeway. Another twist of the handle and his mouth is wide open; he’s fighting for breath. They’re garroting him, each twist of the handle tightening the pressure on his throat. Beads of sweat pour down Kavi’s face, as the bonds are pulled even tighter. Just as another twist comes, the chains pull his shoulders out of their sockets with a loud crack.
“No! No, you fuckers––me! I’m the one you want.” My eyes are wet with tears. This shouldn’t be happening. I shouldn’t be seeing this. I hear Patty’s wailing from the other cage; there’s not a sound from Dixon.
And, as Kavi’s limbs are torn out of their sockets, his neck broken by the noose, he mouths the words: “Pray for me.”
I would if I could.
It is only now that the cameras reveal themselves, the ones I suspected were in the room all along. They detach themselves from the ceiling, round like the cages and suspended by power cables. They look like miniature CCTV cams you might find in the middle of shopping precincts. Four in total, one for each prisoner, with a single circular lens in the middle.
The nearest one descends to my level. It stares at me and I wonder who I’m staring back at, through that lens.
“I will get out of here, I promise you; I’ll get out… And then I’m going to come for you.”
Big words, with nothing to back them up.
The camera just gazes at me in silence.
Interlude:
Five Days Ago.
I went on the run.
Doesn’t that sound cool, like something out of a Quinn Martin production? Every week a different adventure, helping people put right what once went wrong then moving on again, the noble hero.
What a load of crap.
It was hard on the streets. I had no money––I’d lost my wallet during the incident in the Emergency Room, and anyway my card could be traced. I couldn’t afford for anyone to know where I was or what I was doing.
I headed North, away from the towns and cities. I figured there’d be less scrutiny in the wide, open spaces, little realizing that a stranger often stuck out like a sore thumb. The other drawback was people had a tendency to notice you begging for money, too. But I had to eat, collect other ‘materials’. Outside supermarkets was the best bet, until I was inevitably moved on by security staff. I’m not too proud to admit that I stole. How else was I meant to survive? To carry out my plan?
I was aware that they could track me down at any time, but what gave me the edge was knowing about them. Once you do, it becomes a lot easier to live off the grid.
Eventually I had to stop running and gather everything together. The evidence I would need to try––maybe––and convince someone. By this time I was beginning to find it very lonely carrying the burden.
I found a deserted cabin in the woods, a hunting lodge that it hadn’t been used in years. It was practically gutted, partly burnt, but suited my needs perfectly.
I set up shop there, compiling my notes by candlelight in the evenings and catching the odd fish or small animal to eat in the day. I know what you’re thinking: Me - Grizzly Adams. They don’t exactly go together, do they? But I did all right. I holed up long enough to put everything together. A case that even Perry Mason would balk at taking on. I felt like I was finally making progress, getting my head around things.
Nobody could have been more surprised than I was when she turned up.
Kim.
She knocked on the door out of common courtesy, but it was open anyway. As I had been that day on the computer, I was so caught up in what I was doing, I didn’t look up until she was virtually inside.
“Christopher… Chris, is that you?”
I frowned at the figure standing before me: an hallucination? A bad flashback, the drugs having their revenge? But she was as real as I was.
“How… How did you find me?”
It was her turn to frown. “You called my mobile number, left a message. I was so pleased to hear from you.”
I laughed. “I don’t even have a phone anymore.”
“But you must have… Oh God, Chris, what’s happened to you?” She walked further in, looking at the walls where I’d pinned pieces of paper or drawn on the wood in chalk, then her eyes settled on me again. I was sitting on the floor in the middle of more papers; I’d been furiously writing before Kim came in. It had been months since I’d seen myself in any kind of mirror, so had no idea what she was seeing. I knew my hair was long and I’d grown a beard. I was still wearing the old clothes I’d run off in that first night, but had managed to snag an overcoat from a toilet cubicle (the owner had left it on the back of the door). Christ, though, what a mess I must have looked.
“Kim, listen, if they know where I am, if they left that message, then I don’t have a lot of time. It isn’t exactly how I wanted to do this, but I suppose it’s appropriate that you should be the first to see. The first other than me, that is.”
“Chris, where have you been all this time? How did you get all the way up here? People have been looking for you.”
One of my eyebrows arched. “People, what people?”
“The police, mainly. They were waiting for me when I got to hospital the night you vanished.”
“What the fuck were you doing there?” My tone was harsh and I immediately regretted it.
“My number was still down as point of contact if anything should… They said you were on drugs, said you’d hurt people.”
I stood, letting the papers pool around me. “I couldn’t let them take me away––didn’t know who to trust.”
“Why? Because of all… this?” Kim glanced around the room again.
I started towards her and she backed off. “It’s okay, look, I figured it all out.”
“What? All I see are drawings of ellipses, colored in blue.”
I nodded. “It’s an eye. It’s a symbol. We’re being watched, Kim. Maybe even now, I’m not sure.”
“I… I don’t understand.”
“Nobody knows it, but I swear it’s the truth. Our lives are being contr––” I hesitated, blinked, then said, “being manipulated. The clues are everywhere, in everything. It’s not exactly like my stories, but––”
“Your stories?”
“You remember, I almost got one published––but I don’t think they could let it get out into the open. Even though it was fiction, it might have given people ideas.”
“Yes, of course I remember. But they were just made up, you said so yourself.”
“I did, but I know now they were my own way of dealing with what’s been going on. I struck on something, Kim, and didn’t even realize it.”
She shook her head. “Chris, there’s something wrong with you. That night, the doctors told me––”
“I knew it, I just knew it! Don’t you see, they’d tell you anything to make you think I was cracking up.”
“The… the people who are watching us, right?” Kim didn’t sound convinced.
“Not people, exactly. Nostradamus almost had it right,” I told her. “He said gods would arrive in the form of humans, and be the cause of great conflict. But they’re not here at all, they never were. I don’t know exactly what they are, something our brains probably can’t cope with. I do know they stay well out of it, wind us up and let us go––like clockwork toys. They… ‘encourage’ us to batter each other, emotionally and physically, and get off on it. Can you believe that? The
y don’t like to get their own hands dirty; it’s like reality TV or something. But they need us to be damaged, it… empowers them.”
“Chris, you’re really scaring me.”
I took another couple of steps towards her, holding out my hands so she could see I meant no harm. “I’ve been able to see the patterns for some time now. They have a hand in everything we do––the arts, politics, advertising––every fucking thing, Kim!”
“What are you talking about? How can art cause pain, conflict?” I could tell by her face that she didn’t get it.
“What do we do when we create something? We argue over its worth. It causes divisions, even on a small scale. We fight wars sometimes because we can’t agree on the fundamental principles of life, of religion, of anything. While they sit back and just keep cranking up the tension. They make us hurt each other, Kim––just like that time I hurt you.” I bent down and grabbed a handful of papers on the floor, shoving them in her direction. “Here, see, it’s all in my notes, my research. It isn’t fiction this time––it’s fact!”
Her mouth moved as she read the first line. “‘They watch and wait.’”
I nodded. “Exactly.”
“No,” she said, giving me the paper back. “That’s all it says, Chris, over and over again: ‘They watch and wait.’”
“What? Here, give me that.” I snatched it from her and looked at the words I’d written; hours and hours of painstaking work, thoughts, hypotheses, all somehow wiped out. “This can’t be… How have they done this?” I looked at her. “They must have implanted it subliminally, not allowed me to write what I thought I was writing.”
Kim was nodding, but she was backing up towards the door. “Subliminal… yes, I see now.”
I ran at her, grabbing her arms. “I’m telling you the truth. It’s all out there, if you only choose to see.”
Kim tried to break loose, but I wouldn’t let her. “Let go of me, Chris. I came here to help you. They said you might be dangerous but––”
“Who? Who said that?” I shook her. “Their acolytes? The ones who serve, even though they don’t know it?”
Kim finally broke free and fell backwards, crying.
“You’ve brought them here, haven’t you?”
She continued to cry, just as she had into her pillow.
“Why else would you come?”
“Because you asked me to!” she screamed. “Because even after everything, after all this time, I still love you!”
I stood there, looking down on her.
“Nobody makes us hurt each other. We do it to ourselves, Chris! There’s nobody watching or waiting, nobody out there controlling any of us; anything. We. Do. It. To. Ourselves!” She said each word individually, to give it impact.
I swallowed before answering. “Then how do you explain that?” I pointed down at the ground, the way the papers had fallen on the floor.
Kim rose, eyes flicking between me and the papers. They’d fallen in the shape of a giant eye, perfect in every way. She said nothing.
“They’re coming for me, aren’t they?”
“Chris, they’re going to help you.” Even after all this, Kim still couldn’t accept it.
“No-one can do that.” I made to pass her, then stopped. I leaned in for a kiss and, as disgusting as I must have looked, she kissed me back. “I’m sorry,” I said, breaking off. “I have to go.”
Kim didn’t try to stop me. It might have been because she knew the authorities were already on their way, but I like to think it had something to do with realizing the truth.
I can still picture her there, standing in the doorway, looking back at me as I disappeared into the trees.
Six
I suspect Dixon died during the night, or what passes for night here––a dimming of already pretty dim lights.
When I wake, I see he’s not moving, and he doesn’t answer me when I repeatedly call him. He’s had enough, finally given up. We now have another cellmate, another woman in Kavi’s cage. She’s unconscious as well, but I figure she’s not dead yet or they wouldn’t have put her in here. What would be the point? The cameras––which have vanished now, but I know are still around––wouldn’t be able to catch our reactions then. Wouldn’t be able to savor the agony on the faces of the torture victims.
Patty is not much conversation. I find myself missing Kavi, even with his irritating ways. I wonder absently if the new woman will be any more company? She’s laying with her back to me at the moment; all I can see is her blonde hair, much lighter than Jane’s. She’s not blindfolded, at least––I can tell that much.
For about the millionth time I wish I could get out of this fucking cell! There has to be a way.
It’s at this point the woman, obviously waking from a drug-induced sleep, begins to stir. She rolls over, the blonde hair falling over her face in curls. She brings a hand up and rubs at that face, moving the curls to one side.
I take in a sharp breath. No, it can’t be. “Mum?”
The woman moans something, not quite with it yet. But it’s definitely her; my mother, who ran off with the bookmaker all that time ago.
They’re going after my family now?
Who will I see in here next, who will they torture just to film my reaction to it? I can’t let them harm her, not like they’ve done with Phil, Jane, Kavi…I can see visions of the terrible things they might do to her; pour acid onto her face, perhaps? Slit her nose open with a knife? Carve her up like those roasts she used to cook on a Sunday.
The more I stare the more I realize something is wrong with this picture. Don’t get me wrong, it’s my Mum––I’d recognize her anywhere. Except… except she doesn’t seem to have aged since I last saw her. As she pushes herself up, the shackles preventing her from going far, I see her face clearly for the first time. It’s the same as it was when I was ten, maybe even younger. No lines like I noticed the last time I went to see her a few years back (I just couldn’t stand that idiot she lived with).
“Mum?” I say it louder, hopefully loud enough to bring her back to the here and now. She looks at me blankly; no recognition. “Mum, it’s me. It’s Chris.” She just gazes at me.
“A… Alice, is that you?” Patty’s voice startles me, possibly because I’ve never heard it so frightened and excited at the same time––not even when she was fearing for her own life. Alice? That’s my mother’s name. Alice Warwick (nee Henderson). But how could… Patty must know her, live in the same area, on the same street?
No.
As I look from one face to the other, it’s so obvious now I could cry. The same nose, the same mouth. How many of us ever study our parents’ faces, really study them? If we did we might well see mirrors of ourselves reflected there. I was always told I had my Dad’s chin, Mum’s eyes. But she in turn had inherited features from her mother.
“My husband passed away many years ago, but there’s my daughter, and my little grandson, though he’s probably too young to remember his old Gran.”
Patty… Patricia… Patricia Henderson. A woman I barely knew, who died when I was only small. I’d seen a few photos growing up, of course, but… Christ Almighty!
“Mum,” says ‘Alice’, parroting my words. “What are you doing here? Where am I?” A look of complete and utter shock passes across her face. “You’re… You’re dead. You died when I was… Oh my God. That’s it, isn’t it? I’m dead, too! And I’m in––” My Mum looks down at the manacles on her wrists and ankles, at the bars surrounding her.
I know exactly what she’s thinking: Jane said it once. This is Hell. And we’re all being punished for something.
Only I don’t believe in Heaven, Hell or anything else. I know what I believe in and it isn’t that. “Mum, you have to calm down.”
“Who are you?”
“It’s me. Your son, Christopher.”
Patty has figured it out as well by now. “Little Chris?”
I nod. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I’m goin
g to get you out. Get us all out.”
“They’ve done such terrible things to people,” Patty tells her daughter.
“I still don’t understand.”
We aren’t allowed any more time to figure things out, because once again the door opens and the robed men march in. Three this time. They might be coming to take Dixon away, or do something to Patty… Gran… but I don’t want to find out which. Already the cameras are appearing, descending to film events.
“Stay away from them!” I shout. “I’m not kidding.”
They ignore me. One points to Dixon, then turns in the direction of Patty’s cage. The final one stands between me and my Mum.
It all happens in a flash, but like all moments of intensity, it also slows right down to a crawl. Out of the corner of my eye I see Dixon rise; he’s only been pretending to be dead. Through the bars he grabs hold of the closest guard and reaches into his cloak. There’s a sudden bang as Dixon shoots the guy; too late the chains holding the old man begin to tighten.
Another shot, and the monk nearest to me catches a bullet in the arm. He staggers close enough to my cage that I can drag him into the bars, knocking him out cold. Quickly, before my own chains yank me back, I fumble inside his robes and pull out the keys they always use. My shackles are beginning to pull tight, so I see to them first––both feet. Then one hand. I only have time for the one, before I have to make a start on the cage lock. I’m being dragged backwards by one arm. I stretch to try and turn the key a final time.
A third shot, and Dixon is dead––really dead, this time. The only monk left has seen to that. I’m still struggling with the key, but manage to turn it, unlocking the cage. The door flies open.
Is it my imagination, or are the other two cages growing smaller? Compressing? Gran and Mum hold up their hands as the bars shrink. I look up and the same is true of my own cage. They’re trying to crush us.
