Going Underground

by Denison, L. N

  Slinking their way through the ruins and past the patrol, Oscar and Jen headed towards the main entrance. They were giddy with excitement at carrying out the riskiest and potentially the most glorious venture in The Independent Mind’s history.

  ‘Right! We’ve completed the most difficult part, now all we need to do is carry out the distribution,’ Oscar whispered. ‘Hopefully, the wind will be kind to us. Let’s get to the top of the building and hope that the patrol has gone from the corner. We can’t risk them getting the slightest whiff of what’s going on.’

  As quickly as they could, Oscar and Jen made their way to the top of the building. It wasn’t easy: they had to scale twenty flights of steep rubbish-and debris-strewn stairs. Out of breath and cramped up, Oscar made his way out on to the roof of the colossal building and gingerly peered over the edge to see whether the patrol had moved on. Damn the luck! They were still there, but they looked poised to strike out for another area. Oscar waited for a while, and Jen stayed in the shadows for the all-clear.

  Finally, after a seeming lifetime, the patrol resumed their rounds. Oscar beckoned a rather anxious Jen.

  ‘Bloody hell, Oscar! I thought we would have been finished by now. Soddin’ patrols!’ Jen spat.

  ‘I know! Well, let’s get this done, then we can get back to the network and nobody will be any the wiser,’ Oscar replied calmly.

  The ministry building was shrouded in darkness, and the wind had picked up since their arrival on the roof. Oscar and Jen readied their sacks.

  ‘Well, here goes nothing,’ said Oscar. ‘Bombs away!’

  *

  Although Oscar had been vigilant in making sure the patrol had moved a far enough distance away, it didn’t change the fact that one of the patrolmen had spotted something unusual in the distance. Although his findings were far from conclusive at that distance, he shared them with his superior. They either had to investigate or put it down to a trick of the light—or lack thereof. Like any good lead patrolman, he took the word of the subordinate seriously.

  ‘Turn back—we need to investigate the ministry building before we can start patrolling!’ he barked.

  The closer they got to the ministry building, the better the patrolman’s eyesight proved to be; as newsletters fell from the skies, blowing every which way. Rifles were brought to chests, and the march turned into a charge to get to the perpetrators before they eluded capture. It had been a long time since any patrol had made a decent arrest.

  *

  Oscar and Jen were blissfully unaware of the danger they had put themselves in by carrying out their risky venture.

  ‘I am really enjoying this!’ Jen said excitedly as she tossed another handful of newsletters over the side of the ministry building.

  All Oscar could do was smile, as he, too, was savouring the element of danger, but for some reason he sensed something wasn’t right. Instinctively, he glanced towards the patrol’s old post, and his eyes widened with terror.

  ‘Jen, stop! We have to go!’ Oscar cried in a panicky voice.

  Jen carried on regardless, blocking out Oscar’s plea. Oscar grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the side.

  ‘Jen, we need to go NOW!’ he snapped. ‘The patrol’s doubled back! We’re doomed!’

  She heard him this time. ‘Oh, shit!’

  They knew there was no way on earth they were going to escape the ministry building without getting caught. The patrol was far too close for them to get out safely and out of sight. They would be lucky if they made it to the fifth floor before being captured.

  The patrol was closing in on the entrance to the ministry building, with only fifty yards separating them from the front door. Oscar and Jen had only managed to get as far as the twelfth floor, making any attempt at escape fruitless.

  In his infinite wisdom, Oscar decided that it might be a good idea for them to stop running from the inevitable: to give up, and face the consequences of their actions.

  ‘Why are we stopping?’ Jen asked apprehensively.

  ‘It’s pointless, running,’ Oscar panted. ‘We might as well wait here and let them come to us!’

  ‘And go back to the labour camp?’ Jen cried hysterically. ‘Are you out of your fookin’ mind?’ Images of Dr. Simon Besson flooded her brain.

  Oscar put a comforting arm around her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Jen, but there’s no way out,’ he said forlornly.

  Jen knew he was right. She mentally prepared herself for the patrol’s arrival, sitting on the top stair of the twelfth flight.

  After a short wait, Oscar heard rapid footsteps making their way up the twenty flights of stairs. The patrol had only made it as far as the third floor, but at the speed they were going, they would be on top of Oscar and Jen in no time.

  Oscar’s arm wrapped itself tighter around Jen’s shoulders as the footsteps grew louder. Their eyes grew wider, and all hope of surviving to witness the ousting of John Howard and his corrupt Parliament faded.

  Oscar and Jen braced themselves for the patrol’s arrival. The footsteps were getting louder and louder as the jackboot-clad party of five made it to within two floors of capturing two of the most wanted people in the networks. Oscar’s other arm passed across the front of Jen’s body to protect her from any blows that might be thrown upon their impending arrests.

  At last, the lead patrolman locked eyes with Oscar and Jen. He grinned like a jack-o’-lantern as a look of triumph spread over his wicked face.

  ‘Don’t move—stay where you are!’ he barked at them irritably and then turned his attention to his subordinates. ‘Get them up and restrain them!’

  The patrolmen pulled Oscar and Jen none too gently away from each other and promptly restrained them with handcuffs from their utility belts. All that Jen could think about was the day she encountered Sir John Cutter’s henchmen—the day she was separated from Myron. She had long considered that the worst day of her life. With a guilty verdict hanging over her like a black cloud, she realised all the rest of her brief days would be the worst.

  The lead patrolman pointed to two of his men. ‘You! Go up to the roof. I want to know what was going on up there.’

  Oscar bowed his head; he knew a good many newsletters were still left on the roof, and he quietly cursed himself for not having the gumption to find a hiding place before running. There was ample evidence to try them for high treason. As Oscar and Jen well knew, the punishment for such a crime was death.

  *

  Once on the roof, the two patrolmen each took a different direction. It didn’t take long for them to find over half a sack of the damning newsletters.

  ‘Cooper, come ’ere!’ one patrolman bellowed to his colleague.

  The patrolman fished a newsletter out of the sack, removed a torch from his utility belt, and began to read.

  ‘What’s up, Harrison?’ his partner asked, coming up from behind.

  ‘There you are—look at this!’ Harrison handed Cooper the newsletter and his torch. Cooper couldn’t believe what he was reading.

  ‘Those blighters are done for!’ He smirked as he placed the parchment back in the sack.

  Harrison said, ‘Come on! Let’s get this stuff downstairs—we’ll be logging it in as evidence of high treason.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Jen and Oscar were taken to labour camp number four after their arrests. The harshest of its kind, camp four had a reputation for being the worst of all in terms of survival. They would remain there only until the next morning, at which time they would be relocated to London. Luckily for them, a strict order specified they were not to be harmed in any way.

  ‘Where in London will they be taking us tomorrow?’ Jen asked the camp’s administrator during processing.

  ‘I can’t tell you that! Both of you, step forward!’ he replied sternly. ‘Take off your belts and jewellery, and take the laces out of your boots.’ He looked at Jen and added cruelly, ‘And you, Cyclops, take off your eye patch.’ He laughed uproariously at his own joke, and th
en added: ‘Hopefully we won’t find you both dead in the morning, orders notwithstanding.’

  Jen reluctantly removed the patch, feeling rather naked without it. Oscar tried not to stare at her, sensing her self-consciousness.

  Jen turned to Oscar for a sign of reassurance, but he had none to give. He knew where they were going to be taken in the morning: the Houses of Parliament. Gerick had informed him in a previous communication that there was a secret medical wing, as they called it, underneath the main building. In reality it was a place used for the interrogation and torture of political and high priority prisoners, which sometimes resulted in death for an unfortunate few. One had to be strong of body and mind to survive the brutality at the hands of the torture technicians.

  Processing was quick, as there was no need to go through the usual procedures that new inmates had to endure. Both Jen and Oscar were led to one of the Nissen huts, restraint free, but under the barrel of a gun. It was a deliberately slow journey, as Jen was in no hurry to quicken what had been put aside for her.

  *

  Jen and Oscar spent a restless night, and the morning came around far too quickly for their liking. No sooner had they awoken than the guards had crashed through the door to retrieve them.

  First, they would be taken back through to administration for personal effects retrieval, and then they would be taken to the Houses of Parliament. The journey promised to be just as life-threatening as what lay in wait for them upon their arrival at the medical wing. The countryside was still rife with rebel cells and underground resistance movements that revelled in taking pot shots at Army and government targets, regardless of the consequences or who they killed. War was war, even though it had been over for several months.

  A white van screeched to a halt outside the administration building, and the driver began to hoot impatiently.

  ‘You! Get the prisoners to the van!’ the administrator snapped as he beckoned an idle guard over. The guard pushed his body away from the wall he had been propping up against and ambled over to Oscar first, pulling a set of wrist restraints from his utility belt.

  ‘Hold your hands out!’ the guard barked irritably.

  Oscar did what he was told, as he watched Jen re-lace her boots and replace her eye patch.

  It was the first time Oscar had seen Jen’s eye wound since the night of the missile attack. The scar was fully visible; the iris had turned a pale shade of blue, like a robin’s egg, and the pupil was now non-existent. What amazed him was the fact this red badge of courage hadn’t taken away from the rare physical beauty she possessed. If anything, it only augmented it.

  Jen caught Oscar staring at her and lowered her head ashamedly.

  ‘No worries, Jen,’ he said softly. ‘You always look smashing, with or without the patch.’

  ‘No talking!’ the guard roared and pushed Oscar roughly against the wall, checking the restraints as he did so. He then made his way over to Jen. She stood upright to face the guard; she didn’t need to be told what to do, she just held her hands out in front of her and let the guard proceed.

  Jen had spent her time in the administration building mentally preparing for the journey to London, whereas Oscar remained indifferent, almost poker-faced.

  ‘Follow me!’ the guard ordered. He started to chant evilly: ‘London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady—and so shall you!’ His braying laugh echoed down the corridor.

  *

  After an uneventful journey to London, the van pulled to a halt outside the entrance of the hidden medical wing. Five guards had been waiting to greet their guests. Jen’s heart skipped a beat as the van doors swung open.

  ‘Get down, both of you!’ the more senior of the guards barked. Jen couldn’t understand why so many guards had been assigned to escort the two of them onto the premises, but in fact, she and Oscar were regarded as a security concern. Heavy precautions were in place to thwart any rescue attempts by the other members of The Independent Mind.

  Jen’s already fragile state of mind screamed with fear as they were escorted to the medical wing. Once there, Oscar was taken one way and Jen, another. They anxiously looked over their shoulders at each other as they went their separate ways. As neither could guess the other’s fate, the torture had already begun, if only mentally.

  Jen was led to a tiny cell no bigger than a closet, in which it was only possible to stand. To Jen it resembled an iron maiden, minus the torturous, harmful spikes. Jen was forced to remove her eye patch again before entering the claustrophobic space, exposing her scar and permanently blinded eye. There had to be a reason behind it, but she wasn’t going to argue—she was in no position to do anything. The guard hadn’t even removed her restraints. Jen chose not to ask why for fear of riling him up as he pushed her into the iron maiden-esque cell by her throat.

  ‘I don’t want to hear a peep out of you. There’ll be plenty of time for talking later!’ said the guard mockingly.

  Jen didn’t know how to react, but she knew that whatever lay in store for her would be the most painful experience she would ever face—worse than anything she had ever encountered during her time at labour camp five. It was a waiting game from that moment on, not knowing what to expect or when to expect it.

  *

  Oscar would be the first to sample the medical wing’s torturous delights. He had been taken from his accommodation to a cold, dank room with one flickering strip light. Once there, he was commanded to strip down to his underwear. He was then pushed, face first and violently, against a specially constructed concrete post with integrated restraints. They were attached uncomfortably to Oscar’s bruised wrists after his handcuffs were removed. Then a blindfold was placed over his eyes to prevent him from knowing his tormentor and the instigator of his pain.

  Oscar was left alone for twenty gruelling minutes after the guard had exited the room. Was this all part of the torture process? The temperature in the room was no more than five degrees. Oscar was slowly freezing to death, but he forgot all about his discomfort when an even colder presence—like evil personified—entered the room. The interrogator was an old acquaintance; Oscar knew him well, but until he spoke, Oscar would not know his identity.

  The preternatural silence made Oscar uneasy. Ten minutes passed, and still not a sound. The interrogator’s assistant then entered the room and closed the door behind him.

  ‘Where do you want me, Dr. Besson?’ the assistant asked apprehensively. ‘Over there okay?’

  Memories of Oscar’s time at the camp came flooding back all at once. The fact that it was Simon Besson who would be interrogating him was nearly enough to make him soil himself. To make matters worse, being blindfolded meant he would have no warning when Besson was about to strike.

  Oscar knew from experience that Besson liked to test his torture implements for their effectiveness before the interrogation began. He could hear the footsteps of someone shuffling purposely around him. Oscar classed this as a form of mental torture; the uncertainty of what was going to happen to him was killing him inside.

  ‘Pass me that implement!’ Besson barked at his assistant.

  ‘What—this?’ the assistant replied, picking up a claw-shaped metal contraption with a wooden handle.

  Besson nodded. The assistant handed him the tool, and the sharp claws were raked down Oscar’s back without warning.

  ‘Aaaargh!’ Oscar cried as the implement drew blood, leaving behind a series of jagged and messy gouge marks.

  ‘That’s the kiddie!’ Besson mocked. ‘It would be in your best interest to cooperate and answer all questions put to you—unless, of course, you like the pain. Are you a masochist, Mr. Saracen?’

  Oscar didn’t answer, prompting another stroke of the claw down his back, ripping away at his skin. Again, Oscar cried out in even greater agony.

  ‘I’m sorry, did you not understand the question? I said I wanted answers to all the questions put to you, no matter how trivial!’ Besson hissed in Oscar’s ear.

  Oscar’s pa
in-racked body became limp—but if he thought that would stop Besson, he was sadly mistaken. Besson was now in his element, revelling in Oscar’s discomfort without him realising it.

  ‘Let’s see! Where else can I stick this claw?’ Besson cackled menacingly.

  Oscar drew his body as close to the pillar as he could, thinking of only one place that Besson might consider damaging.

  ‘Oh, relax, will you—I’m not that sadistic!’ said Besson, but Oscar knew different. ‘Now, step away from the pillar!’ the doctor growled.

  Oscar had no choice but to do as he was asked, fearing that Besson would use the claw to force him. Then it came, the one thing Oscar had feared. Besson had struck mercilessly, pulling down his underwear and then plunging the claw between Oscar’s legs until the points of the torturous device had reached the desired spot. Oscar tensed as he felt the points penetrate his scrotum.

  ‘How’s this for a compromise: you answer all my questions like a good little soldier, and I won’t rip your balls off—you can’t ask for a fairer deal than that!’

  Besson pulled slightly on the claw, letting Oscar know that he would carry out his threat if necessary.

  *

  Jen tried desperately not to break down as she listened to the bone-chilling screams coming from down the corridor. She had no idea it was Oscar that she could hear screaming in the distance, and the only thing she wanted to do at that point was cover her ears. With no real room to move and the fact that her wrists were still in restraints, she had no choice but to listen as the ghastly noises grew louder in her head.

  ‘Aaaargh! Get me out of here! Get me out now!’ she screamed at the top of her lungs, the frustration of her situation reaching boiling point. Her cries were not heard, or if they were, they were ignored. Nobody cared about Jen or how she felt. As far as the guards or the medical wing personnel were concerned, she was just another piece of meat waiting to be interrogated.

  Jen’s hard-nosed attitude had all but crumbled under the pressure, and by the time the torture technicians had finished with her, all that would be left would be a shell of the person she used to be. She remained oblivious to the fact that Simon Besson would be the one to cause her impending misery.