by RR Haywood
Four
Konrad and Malcolm walk stiffly down the concrete corridor and pause outside the door. Both of them covered in bruises with split lips, black eyes and swollen faces.
‘Ah,’ Roland says, rushing to the doorway on hearing their shuffling feet. ‘How did it go?’
‘How did it go,’ Konrad mutters, looking away.
‘Come in, chaps,’ Roland says, moving back into the room dominated by a huge rough-hewn wooden desk. ‘Safa Patel?’ he asks, staring from one to the other.
‘In her room,’ Malcolm says, wincing at the pain caused in his mouth when he speaks.
‘Really?’ Roland asks, his face showing genuine delight. ‘All three in one night. How marvellous! My, we have been busy, haven’t we?’
‘Some of us have,’ Konrad mutters again.
‘Yes,’ Roland says slowly while shaking his head as though not quite believing it. ‘So how did it go?’
‘Go?’ Malcolm asks, glancing at Konrad. ‘Well, we got her here.’
‘No no, did she put up a fight?’ Roland asks eagerly.
‘Seriously?’ Konrad asks. ‘Have you seen our faces?’
‘I have and it’s wonderful,’ Roland announces, then stops at the thunderous looks coming back. ‘I mean yes, yes of course I have and, er, well chaps. I am indebted to you. Indeed I am. I would have loved to have been there for Harry and Safa but, well, yes.’ He rocks back and forth on his heels, placing his hands behind his back to look serious and studied. ‘But all three!’ he booms again with a big smile. ‘So? Did Safa fight you did she?’
‘Yes,’ Malcolm replies flatly.
‘How much?’ Roland asks.
‘Loads,’ Konrad says as flatly as Malcolm.
‘Well now,’ Roland says, grinning at both of them. ‘Very well done, chaps.’
‘Boss,’ Malcolm says with a worried glance at Konrad. ‘Er, what you gonna do when they wake up?’
‘Pardon?’ Roland asks.
‘They ain’t gonna be happy are they?’ Malcolm says.
‘And we’ve already had the shit beaten out of us,’ Konrad adds.
‘You didn’t get your nose broke,’ Malcolm mutters.
‘You didn’t get your nose broke,’ Konrad mimics.
‘Twat,’ Malcolm huffs, then looks at Roland. ‘They’re hard as nails . . . we’ve kidnapped ’em, pumped ’em full of drugs and we really ain’t gonna stop ’em if all three go nuts.’
‘Nuts?’ Roland asks, smoothing his dark hair back.
Malcolm looks at Konrad, who looks back at Malcolm. ‘Have you thought this through?’ Konrad asks.
‘Of course I have,’ Roland replies brusquely. ‘But yes, I will admit there is an element of, er, well, winging it as we go . . .’
‘We?’ Konrad asks.
‘Hmmm,’ Roland says. ‘I was rather thinking they would wake up and I would explain what has happened and . . . well . . . that would be that . . . I mean, they are Harry Madden, Ben Ryder and Safa Patel and the program has matched them for honour and integrity as well as bravery and courage.’
‘No,’ Malcolm says quickly.
‘No?’ Roland asks.
‘No,’ Konrad says firmly. ‘You’re gonna need more men.’
‘More men?’ Roland asks with a look of alarm.
‘In case they go nuts,’ Konrad says.
‘When they go nuts, not if,’ Malcolm adds.
‘Right. More men, eh?’ Roland says, grimacing at the prospect. ‘Er, perhaps you chaps could find some?’
The two men exchange a look. ‘Fine,’ Konrad groans.
‘Great!’ Roland booms. ‘Get some big ones.’
‘Big ones,’ Konrad says with an exhausted nod.
‘But don’t tell them what . . .’
‘Yes, boss,’ Malcolm sighs. ‘Don’t tell them anything. We know.’
‘They can’t see the door thing,’ Roland says.
‘Door thing,’ Konrad mutters.
‘Portal,’ Malcolm says.
‘Yes, that portal door thing. They can’t see it . . . or outside! Christ, don’t show them outside.’
‘We won’t.’
‘Offer them money,’ Roland says, holding a finger up.
‘Well, they ain’t gonna work for free,’ Konrad says.
‘But not too much money,’ Roland adds quickly with a look of panic. He stares at the two bruised men. ‘Well, off you go then.’
‘What, now?’ Konrad asks.
‘We’ve only just got back with Safa,’ Malcolm says.
‘But they might wake up and go nuts,’ Roland says. ‘We need some big men here.’
‘Yes, boss,’ Malcolm sighs again.
‘Great stuff,’ Roland says. ‘Well done chaps!’
Five
Three austere sterile rooms. Concrete walls. Concrete floors and ceilings. A single metal-framed bed in each room. Two of the rooms have metal shutters indicating the placement of a window.
Ben stirs, sighing and breathing heavily. ‘Can you turn the light off please?’ he mutters, squeezing his lids closed from the glaring light of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling.
Harry opens his eyes and closes them immediately, waiting for the retina burn to pass before trying again with tiny increments to lessen the pain and increase the transition from darkness to light.
Safa wakes and immediately rolls over to bury her head in the pillow at the glaring light as she becomes acutely aware of the pounding headache in the back of her skull.
Ben tries again and slowly peers round at the room. He must be in a hospital. A really horrible hospital run by stretched staff too busy to actually provide care for their patients. Maybe if they bought lower-wattage bulbs they would have enough money left to pay nurses. These things could illuminate a football pitch.
Harry looks round his room too. Noticing the shutter and the door first. He checks his own body for injuries, twitching limbs and tensing muscles to see if anything is broken. He listens too. He must be in a German camp. The Boche must have dragged him from the water and brought him to wherever this is. They’ll know he is a commando from what happened in the fjord. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand that comes away with a smear of blood. His head is pounding. It feels like when he was training to dive and he came to surface too fast from deep water. He must have sunk down deeper than he realised in the fjord.
Safa stares round at her cell. It must be a cell. There is no doubt in her mind that it is a cell. Bare concrete walls, floor and ceiling. A single metal-framed bed and a single solid, metal-riveted door. No tables. No obvious cameras. No alarm cords or tablet screens anywhere. They think she had a part in it. The Prime Minister must have ordered her to be detained under the terrorism laws. His threat was real. She grips the rising panic and forces it back down as another possibility presents itself. What if the attackers got her? What if she is being held by the terrorists ready to be killed and put on the Internet?
Ben feels like shit. His head is pounding and he has to forcibly peel his tongue from the roof of his dry mouth. His throat hurts too. He checks to see if he is injured and wiggles his hands, legs, arms and feet but everything feels okay. Then he remembers that people who lose limbs still feel the lost limb and thinks maybe he is limbless and feeling ghost limbs. He pushes the blanket off, a weird synthetic thing, and looks down at the grey tracksuit covering his seemingly intact body. Concrete walls? Grey tracksuit? Is he in prison? He looks again at the shutters on the wall and over to the solid metal door with a fresh worry pushing into his mind.
Harry fingers the material of his tracksuit, nodding to himself at the quality of the garment. It feels like cotton but it’s not cotton. It’s thin, soft and strong too. He does the same with the blanket, rubbing it between his thumb and fingers. He nods again in respect. The Boche do make good stuff.
Safa sits up too fast and grips the bed with a wave of dizziness that sweeps through then eases away. She takes deep breaths. Inhaling through her nose that
feels wet like it needs blowing. She wipes it with the length of her thumb. It comes away smeared with blood, which she squints at in confusion. She must have been hit hard during that last fight. That thought makes her look up and round again for cameras. She can’t see any but that doesn’t mean they aren’t watching. Whoever they are. This feels professional. It feels too well put together to be the terrorists. If she’d woken up chained in a shit-covered room on top of a filthy mattress she might have accepted it, but this is too good. Must be the police then, or one of the other agencies. They think she had a part in it. That’s a good thing. Stay calm and let the investigation run. She’s clean. She knows she is.
Ben gets up and immediately sits back down from the wave of dizziness moving through his head. His vision darkens until he feels like he will black out. He takes short, shallow breaths until it passes, but it leaves a crushing pain in the back of his skull. Something hot drips on to his hands resting on his lap. He looks down to see a thick drop of blood on his knuckles. Another drop lands, making him realise it’s coming from his nose. He looks round for tissues but even that motion makes him feel sick. Like his head is struggling to catch up with his eyes. He pinches the bridge of his nose, tilts his head back a bit and rises gently to his feet, giving his blood pressure a chance to catch up. How long has he been unconscious for? Would they put an unconscious prisoner in a room on his own? What if he swallowed his tongue or drowned from his own nosebleed? He knows they have different laws for terrorism, but this is England, not America. He looks round for a camera or dome but sees nothing other than the bare concrete walls and bare concrete ceiling. No mirrors and nowhere for a concealed camera to be situated.
He staggers towards the door, feeling pain in his head with every step. It’s warm, muggy and close. He knocks on the door and waits for a prison officer to open it, and when nothing happens, he knocks louder. Still no response, so he bangs the side of his fist, listening to the dull echo sound on the other side.
‘Hello?’ he calls out with a hoarse voice, wincing from the pain in his throat. ‘Can I have some water please?’ This is bad. You can’t leave an unconscious prisoner on their own without medical care or water.
‘Hey.’ He bangs again louder and longer. ‘I wasn’t one of them . . . check the CCTV . . .’
Harry looks up at the first bang coming from outside his door. Must be more cells. He slides from the bed to stand up and feels a wave of nausea sweep through him. He teeters for a second and grips the bed but stays upright. Breathing heavily and simply waiting for the effects to pass. An English voice calls Hello. Harry staggers to his door. His hand automatically going for the handle that he turns to pull the door open. Another solid riveted door opposite with someone banging on the other side asking for water.
Safa hears the bang and the voice too. Now standing in her room feeling weak and ready to pass out again. Hearing other voices is worrying. Especially a male voice. She should not be in a mixed-gender prison or holding centre. She holds still, staring at the door and listening as the voice asks for water.
Ben jumps back at the bang on the other side of the door. The handle goes down and it swings inwards to reveal a huge bearded man with a smear of blood on his nose glaring at him through bloodshot eyes.
‘Not locked,’ Harry says with a voice as hoarse as Ben’s.
‘Are you a guard?’ Ben asks, looking but not seeing the soft grey cotton tracksuit Harry is wearing.
‘No,’ Harry rasps. ‘Regiment?’
‘Eh?’
‘Regiment?’ Harry asks. ‘Rank?’
‘Do what, mate?’ Ben shakes his head and feels a fresh wave of dizziness. His vision goes dark again as two strong hands grip his shoulders to keep him upright.
‘I’m fine . . . honestly.’ Ben steps through the door, squints round and spots three weird-looking institutional blue armchairs, like moulded from one object without seams or armrests. Low, too, but they are better than falling on the hard concrete floor. He staggers over to sink down, much to the relief of his swimming head. Harry watches him for a second before deciding that sitting is indeed much better than standing right now. He sinks down into the third chair, leaving the empty one between them.
‘Harry,’ Harry says quietly in a rough-sounding voice.
‘Ben.’
‘Rank?’
‘Rank?’ Ben asks, glancing over at him. ‘Oh . . . you in the army or something?’
‘Army,’ Harry says, rubbing a hand through his bushy black beard with a confused look.
Ben shakes his head. ‘Investigator with . . .’ He stops with the sudden thought that everything is not right. This is not right. ‘Where are we?’
‘POW camp,’ Harry says with a heavy shrug.
‘POW? What, like prisoner of war?’
Harry nods and that confused look starts to morph into a suspicious glare at Ben, who pats his trouser legs searching for pockets.
‘They take your phone?’ Ben asks him, but Harry just narrows his eyes. ‘Mobile,’ Ben says. Harry remains silent and watchful.
This room is the same as the ones they woke up in with concrete walls, floor and ceiling and a too-bright light. Three chairs and five doors.
‘What’s through those?’ Ben asks, motioning at the closed doors.
Harry doesn’t reply. Ben glances over to see him shrug but staring hard.
‘Investigator with who?’ Harry asks.
‘Pardon?’
‘You’re an investigator. Who with?’
‘Insurance . . .’ Ben’s words cut off with his stomach lurching as he looks back to the open door leading to the room he was in and the name Ben Ryder stencilled on it in black letters. Ben Ryder. Why didn’t they put Ben Calshott? Who told them he is Ben Ryder? How do they know? He gets a memory of someone saying his name when he was grabbed and held down. They said Ryder, not Calshott.
Safa checks over the room again but spots nothing other than the bed and the door. She weighs her options quickly, both of them. Wait here or try the door. She is smart but also not one to hold back, especially with the risk of her family being threatened by the Prime Minister. She moves silently to the door and tries to listen. Two voices. Both male. One is very deep, which forms the mental image of a big man. She can’t hear the words but she catches the tone and short sentences like they don’t know each other. It must be a prison. She wipes her nose again and ignores the blood still seeping out.
Ben looks round to the other open door and the name stencilled in the same black letters. Harry Madden. That rings a bell. Harry Madden. Where’s that from? Ben knows that name. Harry Madden. Bloody hell, the soldier from the Second World War. The famous one who destroyed a U-boat depot. Mad Harry Madden. Ben glances at Harry thinking he even looks the same as the pictures from the school textbooks.
‘Did you say you’re in the army?’ Ben asks.
Harry still does not reply but just stares without expression. He’s a huge man, broad with a big chest and thick hairy wrists that poke out the end of the tracksuit top. Legs like tree trunks and the tops of his feet are as hairy as his face and arms.
‘Any relation?’ Ben asks with a forced smile.
Harry cocks his head, unspeaking but interested.
‘Harry Madden,’ Ben says. ‘Mad Harry?’
Harry’s eyes flick to his name on the door then over to Ben and up to the name Ben Ryder on the other door. Ben watches him, expecting a reaction at his old name being seen but Harry shows no reaction. Instead he leans forward to look to one of the closed doors. Ben tracks his movement and reads the third name stencilled on the bare metal. Safa Patel. Ben looks to Harry and shrugs.
‘Someone else,’ Ben says and starts to rise.
‘Where you going?’ Harry asks with a hard glare.
Ben points at one of the unmarked doors. Harry nods as though to give his agreement and rises to follow. Ben walks slowly to the door and tries the handle. It yields to reveal a bathroom of sorts. One shower unit at the end. One stain
less steel toilet. One basin fitted to the wall. Three neatly folded grey towels each with a new toothbrush inside a large clear plastic cup. ‘Bathroom,’ Ben says to Harry, who moves to peer over his shoulder.
Ben goes inside, grabs the first cup and twists the tap to run the water. He rinses the cup, fills it up, sips then gulps the contents down greedily. The water is like nothing he has ever tasted before. Cool, fresh, light and purer than any water he has ever drunk.
Harry watches from the open door. He moves in to take the cup from the second pile and holds it under the running water. The suspicious look stays on his face until the first sip is taken, then his eyes come alive and he drinks it down in one long gulp followed by a noisy belch and a new suspicious look, but this one directed at the cup. He fills his again, drinks it down then holds the cup in front of his face and taps a fingernail against the side.
‘What’s this?’ Harry asks.
‘Plastic,’ Ben says obviously.
Harry glances at him. ‘We got plastic but nowt like this,’ he says, switching the glare from Ben to the cup.
Ben looks out of the room to the name Harry Madden stencilled on the door. ‘You taking the piss?’ Ben asks him, then realises he just asked a very big man a rude question in the bathroom of a prison. ‘I mean, like . . . you know . . . it’s totally cool if you are.’
Safa hears them move across the room on the other side of her door. Low conversations. Another door opening and what sounds like running water and it’s that sound that makes her decide to go out. Her thirst is immense. Her mouth and throat feel bone dry. She needs water. With a deep breath, she pushes the handle, not expecting the door to open. When it does she has to step back quickly, which causes the dizziness to sweep through her again. She grabs the door frame and fights the sensation with her eyes closed. The voices stop talking. She detects the sound of motion and snaps her eyes open as Ben walks towards her in concern at her falling.
