Extracted

by RR Haywood

  ‘In your neck?’ Ben interrupts as her words spark a fresh memory.

  ‘Must have been a sedative,’ she says, looking down at the ground between her feet as though struggling to remember. ‘One of them had . . . he had a broken nose and black eyes . . . he said something about . . .’ She looks up at Ben. ‘About Ben breaking his nose . . .’

  ‘Me?’ Ben asks, recoiling. ‘I remember being stuck in the neck but . . .’

  ‘In the neck?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah, this side,’ Ben says, reaching up to place a hand on the right side of his neck. ‘Still tender.’

  ‘Let me see,’ she asks, leaning forward.

  Ben twists round and holds his hand over the sore spot. ‘Here,’ he says.

  ‘Move your hand,’ she says, pushing his arm down. ‘Here?’

  ‘Ow.’ He flinches and glares at her for jabbing a finger into his neck.

  ‘Puncture mark,’ she says.

  ‘Have I? Let’s see yours then.’

  ‘This side.’ She touches the left side of her neck. ‘See anything?’

  ‘What, there?’ Ben asks, jabbing his finger into her neck. She recoils, giving him the same glare he gave her.

  ‘Yes,’ she says through gritted teeth. ‘Is it punctured?’

  ‘Yeah. Harry?’ Ben asks.

  ‘I were out of it,’ he says, staring at them like they are both crazy.

  ‘Let’s see your neck,’ Safa demands as he leans forward in the chair. ‘Is it sore anywhere?’

  ‘Sore everywhere, miss,’ he mutters.

  ‘Here?’ She presses into his neck softer than she did with Ben and he flinches slightly with a nod.

  ‘Really?’ Ben gets up to look closer as she holds her finger gently on his neck. A tiny mark like the one on her neck.

  ‘I did break someone’s nose,’ Ben admits, sitting back down. ‘When they grabbed me . . . I thought they were the terrorists or something . . . I mean, it was pitch black and they had these head torches on blinding me but I hit out and I heard one of them say I’d broken his nose.’

  It strikes Ben that Harry is the only one to have admitted doing something and looks the most relaxed while he and Safa are both protesting and trying to convince the others of their innocence.

  ‘Harry? What happened to you?’ Safa asks him.

  ‘Told you,’ he says. ‘I got into the base and set charges to light a path for the bombers to cause a distraction for the U-boats to be attacked. I’m a British Army commando.’ He stops and looks away without a flicker of expression. ‘I knew what I was getting into.’

  ‘And that was in nineteen forty-three?’ she asks.

  ‘Aye,’ he says stoically. ‘It is nineteen forty-three.’

  ‘And you’ – Ben looks to Safa – ‘were at Downing Street during a terrorist attack in twenty twenty.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I was at Holborn when something happened in twenty fifteen. Great. Got it. Makes perfect sense now.’

  They both look at Ben with raised eyebrows. ‘Does it?’ Safa asks.

  ‘Nope.’

  Another silence. They take turns to wipe the sweat from their faces while the rain beats a solid rhythm on the shutters behind them.

  ‘If you’re from the future,’ Harry says slowly, breaking the silence, ‘who wins—’

  ‘We do,’ Ben replies quietly.

  ‘The Germans?’

  ‘No! The British . . . or rather the Allies.’

  ‘What happens?’ he asks with such open emotion the other two think he really believes he is Harry Madden.

  ‘We won,’ Bens says with a shrug.

  ‘How?’

  Ben looks down while Safa clears her throat. The legend of Harry Madden was taught in every school for years. Movies, books, television series. Even coining the phrase ‘Mad Harry’. This man is not Harry Madden, but the belief he projects is overwhelming.

  Harry doesn’t say anything but just turns and stares ahead, nodding slowly. ‘What’s through there?’ he asks, looking at the door.

  ‘Dunno,’ Ben says. ‘Way out maybe?’

  Harry sighs heavily and looks at Safa. ‘I’m going to escape now.’

  ‘Okay,’ she replies slowly.

  ‘I’ll do my best not to hurt you if you try and stop me.’

  ‘I’m not going to stop you.’

  He looks at Ben.

  ‘Oh, I won’t try and stop you either,’ Ben says quickly.

  Harry walks slowly to the door and pauses with his hand stretched out as though expecting some kind of reaction.

  ‘Nowt?’ he asks without turning round from the door while Safa and Ben exchange a glance. With an almost disappointed tut he slaps his hand down noisily on the handle, clearly not expecting it to open and stepping back in surprise when it swings in towards him.

  ‘Shit, it’s open?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Wikipedia said Ben Ryder was a good investigator,’ Safa says, proving a point.

  ‘Yeah? Wikipedia also said Harry Madden was a commando in the Second World War . . .’

  ‘Empty,’ Harry says from the doorway as he looks left and right.

  ‘Really?’ Ben asks, going over with Safa to join him at the door. Harry steps out, allowing them space to move into a wide corridor in the same design as their rooms with concrete walls, floor and ceiling. Harsh strip lights overhead and the same solid, metal-riveted doors on both sides.

  ‘See this?’ Safa says, pointing at the outside of the main door and their names stencilled in black. Harry Madden. Ben Ryder. Safa Patel.

  ‘Feels warmer in here,’ Ben whispers, tugging at the collar on his grey tracksuit top. ‘Which way?’

  ‘No names on these doors,’ Harry says, walking down the corridor to the first door on the opposite side.

  ‘Are they open?’ Safa asks.

  Harry pushes the handle down and steps back to swing the door open. ‘Same,’ he says. Safa and Ben walk down to stare into a replica of the rooms they just came from. A main room with three pale blue moulded armchairs. A bathroom with three towels, three cups and three toothbrushes. The doors from the main room lead to the same austere bedrooms, each fitted with a single metal-framed bed. They go down the corridor, taking it in turns to open the doors. Each set of rooms is the same and the stress rises as quickly as the sweat prickles their faces and necks. Dark patches form under Harry’s armpits. Bare feet slap gently on the concrete floor and the feeling of being unable to catch up increases by the minute. At the end of the corridor they stop and stare at the double doors fitted into the wall.

  ‘Listen,’ Harry whispers, bending his head closer to the door to listen to the voices coming from the other side. ‘People.’

  ‘We’ve got to be in a prison,’ Ben whispers.

  ‘No locks,’ Harry says, shaking his head.

  ‘Maybe it’s a weird prison then, like a special terrorism prison?’ Ben says, feeling completely out of his depth. ‘Maybe . . . er . . . we should stay together?’ Blank looks from both of them and he bites his lip, trying to think how to form his words. ‘Safa, you’re a copper right?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Yeah, so?’

  ‘I thought they didn’t like coppers in prisons . . . and, er, lady coppers especially?’ Ben adds with a wince.

  She blanches, glaring from Ben to Harry with her lips pursing.

  ‘Stay together?’ Ben asks them both. Harry nods, looking down at Safa.

  ‘Miss?’

  ‘I can handle myself,’ she says firmly.

  ‘Fine, sorry I was—’ Ben starts.

  ‘Stay together then,’ she says, cutting him off. ‘If you want to, that is.’

  ‘I do,’ Ben says. ‘I mean, look at the size of him.’ He motions at Harry. ‘I don’t want to get done in the showers.’

  ‘Done?’ Harry asks innocently.

  ‘We’ve got our own showers,’ Safa says.

  ‘Done for what?’ Harry asks again.

  ‘You know,’ Ben says to Harry. ‘I
n the showers in prisons . . .’

  ‘Beaten?’ Harry asks.

  ‘Yeah, something like that,’ Ben says meekly as Harry rolls his eyes.

  ‘That was a joke,’ Harry says. ‘I know what they do in prisons.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Ben groans.

  ‘They steal from each other, right?’ Harry says, holding that poker face perfectly.

  ‘Let’s just get in,’ Safa orders with a grim expression, pushing past Harry and through the double doors.

  Seven

  The room is big and square with bare concrete on all sides. Metal shutters run down the length of one wall with a long wooden table underneath. Harry nudges Ben and Safa to look at the bowls of fruit on display.

  Bananas the size of . . . well . . . very big bananas, and round orange things that cannot be oranges because they are the size of melons. Large wooden bowls hold other things that look like apples, pears and berries, but so much bigger and in different shades of colour. The objects are clearly fruit but like nothing any of them have ever seen before, with an array of vibrant colours seeming more vivid in the otherwise bland grey room.

  A dozen or more men stand conferring quietly at the far end of the room next to a set of doors. Several rough-hewn tables and chairs lie scattered about.

  The difference of perceptions and of what the eye sees and matches to the experiences of life and the knowledge held by the viewer.

  To Safa, the sights are jarring and only increase her already heightened anxious state. Prisons do not have fruit on display and they do not have wooden chairs and tables that can be smashed up to make weapons from. Prisons do not have mixed-gender communal rooms. Prisons do not require a female detainee to share a bathroom with a male detainee. They do not have open doors. This is not a prison, but it still feels like a prison. That alarms her. It upsets the black and white in her head, which has no room for grey uncertainty.

  To Ben, the sight means a myriad of things. His mind is more open than Safa’s and less confined to the world of law and order. He sees nutritional food laid out, which tells him there is some effort put into providing care for the people meant to stay here. The rough-hewn tables and chairs tell him this is more building site than anything else, but again some effort has been made to provide at least a place to sit and eat. He sees open doors and a sense of security, but cannot fathom if they are secured within or from something without. The whole of it taken thus far speaks of a thing as yet unfinished.

  Harry sees a POW camp. Enough said.

  They look over to the dozen or more men. Safa sees security personnel dressed in paramilitary-style coveralls and wearing assault boots. She sees wide shoulders, straight backs, clean-shaven chins and military-grade haircuts.

  Ben catches obscured glimpses of a tall, dark-haired man dressed in khaki talking to the men, but pausing after every sentence as though someone is translating his words. He sees the men staring from the man in khaki to someone else as they track the conversation.

  Harry sees guards.

  Safa looks round again. Still jarred. Still uncertain. Her proactive mind tells her to do something and take control.

  Ben sees people and figures who will know what is going on. He can hear them talking and snatches of words in English and German. The dark-haired man he glimpses is speaking English, but someone else is translating into German. Why German? His mind reaches the conclusion that he must be in a European detention centre. Which explains the weird set-up.

  Harry sees German guards speaking German in a German POW camp.

  Just as Safa is about to take control by calling out, and just as Ben is about to whisper his thoughts to the others, Harry nods once, smiles and sets off striding towards the German guards speaking German in the German POW camp.

  ‘Er . . . where’s he going?’ Ben asks, pointing after Harry.

  ‘Harry Madden. Sergeant. Second Commando Unit . . .’ Harry booms across the room, snapping the head of every German guard towards him, who see a huge man in a grey tracksuit with toilet tissue poking from his nose.

  ‘Holy fuck,’ Safa mutters. ‘He really thinks he’s . . .’

  ‘Parachute Division. British Army . . .’ Harry shouts, his voice deep and proud. He rolls his shoulders as he walks and flexes his wrists while making fists, telegraphing his intent to fight. ‘I am a commando. I was dressed as a civilian . . .’

  Ben tries to snort a dry, humourless laugh and sends the tissue from his left nostril shooting out. Safa shakes her head in disbelief but clocks the formation as the men in the coveralls suddenly disperse from a tight group to one that ranges out in a flanking manoeuvre. She takes a step forward. Her eyes reading the tiny visual nuances in the men, who check their immediate space and slide feet to keep one forward and one back in a basic combat stance.

  ‘Harry!’ a man calls out in English, striding from the back of the group. A tall man with dark hair. The same one Ben could see in the crowd. Ben gets that jolt of déjà vu again. The same as when he saw Safa and Harry. The same weird, unsettling sensation that is rapidly becoming too familiar. His mind races to remember how he knows this person, but he cannot find the context or place in his mind.

  ‘Sir.’ Harry comes to a sudden stop and snaps a smart salute. ‘Are you the CO in the camp?’

  ‘The what in the what now?’ Roland asks, blinking in response.

  Harry lowers the salute, instantly absorbing that this man is not an officer. He rolls his shoulders again. Makes fists and looks round at the guards. ‘Come on then,’ he says mildly. ‘Get it over with . . .’

  ‘Get what over with?’ Roland asks as Ben searches his mind and tries to shake the fug of confusion spinning inside his head. Safa stares on. Watching and listening and still seeing the men in coveralls moving out in a circling motion. Hands away from bodies ready to lunge and fight and she notices the way they glance to each other too, confirming placement and positions. She takes another step forward.

  ‘Dirty Boche,’ Harry says, his voice dropping to a dangerously low tone. ‘Kampf mich . . .’ he adds with relish.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ Konrad whimpers.

  ‘Kampf mich,’ Harry says, louder and harder. ‘KAMPF MICH . . .’

  ‘Ah no . . . no no no,’ Konrad wails, waving his arms at the men in coveralls, now glaring angrily at Harry.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Malcolm asks.

  ‘Harry, let me explain,’ Roland says.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Ben says.

  ‘No idea,’ Safa mutters.

  ‘Oh no,’ Konrad whimpers again. ‘He’s telling them to fight him . . .’

  ‘I bloody said he would do this,’ Malcolm says. ‘We said it. We did. Roland, we said he . . .’

  ‘Now now, Harry,’ Roland says, trying to show an assured calmness but his voice quavers with sudden worry.

  ‘KAMPF MICH,’ Harry bellows, lunging a step at the closest man, who jumps back a step. Harry sees only German soldiers. He sees blond hair, blue eyes and arrogant sneers. He sees Bert, Jack, Billy, Dick and Wozzer and the rest of his mates all killed by these Nazi bastards. He sees his country in flames with women and children dead from bombing raids. He sees the horror of war and the enemy in front of him. They will kill him. He is a commando. They will execute him by firing squad or worse. He will go out fighting and by God he will take a few with him on the way. He can see the guards are close to fighting him. He can feel the tension almost ready to explode. He boots a chair at one of them and feints towards another. They circle him and lower into fighting stances. He smiles grim and full of malice. ‘Kampf mich,’ he says again, waving them to come at him. ‘KAMPF MICH . . .’

  ‘Harry, please let me . . .’ Roland stammers as the situation spirals rapidly out of control. ‘Konrad! Do something . . .’

  Harry hears the name Konrad. Konrad sounds like a German name. The English man is on their side. He sneers and stands upright, knowing his final words will ignite the touch paper. ‘Fick . . . deine . . . mutter . . .’ he says with
malicious delight. That does it. Tell any soldier in the world to fuck his mother and watch what happens.

  ‘NEIN NEIN NEIN,’ Konrad screams.

  ‘Oh bugger,’ Malcolm yelps.

  Harry smashes a fist into the first one coming at him. Pivoting from the hips with a tremendous blow that shatters the man’s nose and sends him flying back off his feet. The next two are battered away. Blood and teeth flying out but these are tough ex-soldiers hired as muscle and used to scrapping. They learn from the downing of the first three and form up to lunge in groups. Harry dances back. Punching hard and kicking out with surprising agility for such a big man. He grabs the arm of a man trying to punch him and snaps the elbow joint over his knee. The man screams and drops. Harry boots him hard, sending him sliding back into the feet of the next man.

  ‘GEHEN,’ someone roars. The rest rush as one. All of them ploughing in to land punches on Harry, who staggers back from the onslaught. He rallies to fight, smashing fists into faces and headbutting others but there are too many. Two go for his legs to try to take him down but he stays upright. Roaring to fight on and hurt them before they kill him.

  Ben watches on with his heart hammering and his vision closing in. The sound of the arm breaking was sickening. The blood flying about. The teeth scattering across the floor. The chairs and tables overturning and the noises of the punches. He winces as the fight moves across the room.

  Safa watches too. Taking small steps towards Harry as the grey in her mind slowly recedes. This is black and white. This is fighting. She does not know who Harry is but only that he cannot be Mad Harry Madden, so therefore she holds no loyalty to him, but right now he is fighting a dozen men on his own and that isn’t right. Not right at all. She takes another step. Then another. Her eyes tracking every movement and motion. An urge inside to help Harry but a voice telling her none of this right. She twitches and flinches like Ben. One of the men gets punched hard by Harry and staggers back with blood streaming down his face that twists with rage as he grabs a chair and swings it up overhead ready to slam into Harry.