Extracted

by RR Haywood

  ‘I said yes,’ he snaps, glaring at the metal-riveted thing balefully.

  ‘Good, get showered. We’re going for a run.’

  He pauses midway through pulling his first boot on and launches it across the room.

  ‘I don’t want to go for a run,’ he says, wrenching the door open to see Harry in his room towelling his hair dry and Safa pulling hers back into a ponytail using the same torn-up shred of grey material.

  ‘Tough,’ she says gently. ‘You were blowing out your arse yesterday just from walking up that bank.’

  ‘That’s because I AM NOT a soldier or police officer . . .’

  ‘Ben,’ Harry warns from his room.

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’ Ben feels the first bite of anger flashing through him. ‘I am not fucking staying here, therefore I do not need to go for a fucking run . . .’

  ‘You’ll die then,’ she says with that same caring look. ‘Your choice.’

  ‘Train or die?’ he asks with a sneer. ‘What kind—’

  ‘Man up,’ Harry booms with such force it snaps Ben upright in shock. Harry flaps the towel out, snapping it straight, before flicking it up to rest on the corner of his open door.

  ‘I can’t,’ Ben says, shaking his head imploringly. ‘I can’t. I can’t do this. I’m not you.’

  ‘They’ll take you back to your death,’ Safa says gently. ‘Drugged . . . or knocked out . . .’

  ‘Not if the three of us . . .’ Ben stops talking, the last ounce of pride holding the words in.

  ‘Listen to me, Ben. We’ll carry you, okay, we’ll do the work. Harry and me, we’ll do what’s needed, but if you don’t go with us, they’ll send you back. Roland doesn’t have a choice.’

  ‘I’m not a bloody child . . .’

  ‘No, you’re Ben Ryder, who saved hundreds of people from being killed and for that,’ she says, holding a finger up, ‘I’ll do what it takes to keep you going.’

  He flails for the right words and wants to scream that she’s got it wrong, both of them have. He did what he did in the heat of the moment without thinking, acting on instinct, but this is not his instinct. He doesn’t want to go with them. He doesn’t want to be here but he doesn’t want them carrying him either. He heads into the bathroom, closing the door gently behind him, and goes through the motions of urinating, brushing his teeth and showering like an automaton before going silently into his room to get dressed.

  ‘You decent?’ she asks from outside his door.

  ‘Yeah.’

  The door swings open. Safa leans through with that worried smile. ‘It’ll be a hard day but I think it will be good for you. Just say if you need to stop, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘We’ll run first then have something to eat . . . drink some water.’

  ‘I’m fine . . .’

  ‘Drink water, you’ll need it.’

  He shrugs, nonchalant and unbothered. He is not here. He does not belong here. He wants to go home.

  Ben follows them down the corridor and through the main room and waits while Safa stops to give Malcolm a new list of things they need. He zones out and idly looks at the way Harry stands easy, dressed in black combat trousers and a tight black wicking top like something from the SAS, but then he is the equivalent of Special Forces. He is the real deal and everything about him oozes quiet but overwhelming confidence. Safa leads them on to the external door, pausing to activate the decontamination unit, then through and out to a beautiful day of glorious sunshine that makes them squint.

  ‘Warm up, then we’ll stretch,’ she says, moving to the corner of the bunker. ‘We’ll use the length of the building for now. Right, steady jog up and down.’ She stays slow, trudging more than jogging, and two more times they go up and down before she gives the next instruction. ‘Heels to arse.’ She goes first, still jogging but flicking her feet up behind to touch her hands pressed to her bum cheeks. Harry gives her a look, a shrug, then sets off, with Ben bringing up the rear already feeling out of breath. The same back down and Ben is sweating by the time they reach the end.

  ‘Sidesteps.’

  Sidesteps they do.

  ‘Knees up.’

  ‘Heels to arse.’

  ‘Jog normally.’

  For a few minutes, it actually feels nice to Ben, using muscles and doing something.

  ‘Stretches,’ she says, moving them away from the bunker towards the open space at the end. They start with arm circles. Small rotations that grow larger but too slowly and within seconds Ben’s shoulders are burning from the exertion. They stop and reverse the cycle, which gives a second or two of respite before the pain kicks in. They bend over, stretching hamstrings, lifting feet to clutch and stretch the front thigh muscles. Arms spinning again then stretching overhead side to side and by that time the sweat is running freely down Ben’s red face.

  ‘Line up.’ She motions to the imaginary start line at the end of the bunker. ‘Jogging again.’

  They set off just a smidgen faster than the last time, reach the end and jog back down. ‘Faster.’

  They go to the end and back down.

  ‘Faster.’

  Up and down.

  ‘Faster.’

  The jogging becomes running then just short of a full-on sprint but she keeps them going until Ben’s legs are hurting and his chest is clamouring for air.

  ‘Rest.’

  She stops for a minute, hardly showing signs of exertion apart from her face holding a layer of glistening sweat. An assessment undertaken. Harry’s fitness is very good. He is breathing hard but then he’s a big man. Ben has no fitness. None at all. How far will he push himself?

  ‘Ready? Again.’

  They jog up and jog down. They run up and run down. Ben can’t keep up with them. His chest hurts. His legs feel like jelly.

  ‘Back up,’ she says, reaching the start line and twisting on the spot. Ben turns and runs, pumping his arms while gasping for air. Harry breathing hard and his face flushing from the heat but he keeps pace with her to the end.

  ‘Back down.’

  They turn and run. Ben’s head starts to swim. He staggers with a wave of dizziness going through his head until gravity takes over and brings him down to the soft grass, where he lies panting and feeling like he is going to die.

  ‘That’s enough,’ she says from somewhere nearby. ‘Take a couple of minutes. I’ll get water.’ She heads inside, leaving him flat out on the grass and Harry leaning with his back against the bunker, panting through an open mouth. They don’t speak. Ben is in too much pain. She comes out carrying three big cups of water. Ben gulps his down, feeling the coolness of the water cascade down his parched throat.

  ‘Over here,’ she says as soon as his cup is drained. He rises up and staggers towards her.

  ‘Circuits, ten push-ups, ten sit-ups, rest, repeat, ten push-ups, ten sit-ups, rest, repeat . . . got it?’

  ‘Only ten?’ Harry asks, dropping down into position.

  ‘For now,’ she says, nodding for Ben to copy her. ‘Three, two, one . . . go!’

  Ben gets the press-ups done, then ten sits-ups, and for a second thinks maybe he’s not as unfit as he thought, but the rest is too short and he’s soon back holding his weight on his hands and starting again.

  The next round is much harder. He gets nine in before she tells him to switch to sit-ups. He does ten and feels a pain in his stomach. Rest. Repeat. They rest and they repeat. Ben’s shoulders and arms burn. His stomach muscles scream out to stop. He flops down in the grass and by the fifth or sixth round he is gasping for air with his eyes burning from sweat.

  Safa and Harry keep going while Ben feels like he is being sucked into the earth, dreaming of being at home on the sofa watching television with Steph. Steph was having an affair.

  ‘Enough,’ Safa says, rolling on to her back and finally breathing hard. She smiles at the familiar pain. The buzz is there. The endorphins are already being released. She recovers quickly. Her breathing coming back under contr
ol as she rolls on to her front and jumps lightly to her feet. ‘I’ll get water.’

  ‘Bring more,’ Ben croaks.

  ‘You’re weak,’ Harry says, making him look up at the casual tone.

  ‘I’m not a soldier. I work in an office.’

  Harry doesn’t reply but looks away.

  ‘I’m not staying here, Harry.’ Harry still doesn’t answer but stands up as Safa comes out carrying the cups of water.

  ‘Have two,’ she tells him. ‘I drank mine inside.’

  Ben takes the cups and downs them both in a few big gulps. Immediately he wants more and gets to his feet. ‘Want another?’ he asks Harry.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No more for a minute,’ Safa says.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’ll get a cramp. We’ll warm down first.’

  ‘But I want more water,’ Ben says obstinately.

  ‘Ben, please . . . you’ll pull a muscle if you don’t warm down properly.’

  They repeat what they did before but she makes them hold the stretches for longer, which just makes Ben’s muscles scream in agony.

  ‘Wait here.’ She heads back inside as Ben flops down on the cooling grass again.

  ‘I’m not staying here,’ Ben says again to Harry, who stays quiet. Ben shrugs and turns away. ‘I’m not staying.’

  ‘Put it down over there,’ Safa says, holding the door open for Malcolm and Konrad. She doesn’t say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ but speaks in a curt, commanding tone.

  She places a black bag on the table and calls the other two over. ‘Harry, I know you saw mine yesterday, but have you handled semi-automatic pistols before?’ she asks, pulling a squat black pistol from the bag.

  ‘Berettas.’

  ‘You’ve handled Berettas?’

  He nods. ‘We had Brownings too,’ he adds, hefting the gun.

  ‘Ben, yours,’ she says, holding one out. ‘None of them are loaded.’

  ‘Malcolm and Konrad get these?’ Ben asks, taking the pistol.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘No, seriously, where the hell do they get guns from so easily?’

  ‘Again, I don’t care,’ she says. ‘They’ve got a time machine, they could take them straight from the factory if they wanted to. Right, this is a Glock semi-automatic pistol that fires a nine-millimetre round. The—’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Ben, just watch and take it in. This is the safety here, on and off . . . see? On and off.’

  ‘I’m not a soldier,’ he says, placing the gun on the table.

  ‘You said you’d try,’ she says.

  ‘I did the running.’

  ‘So do this.’

  ‘I’m not a soldier . . .’

  ‘Nor am I.’

  ‘You were an armed police officer protecting the Prime Minister.’

  ‘Ben, please. Just try. What harm can it do?’

  If she shouted he could get angry. If she ordered him he could tell her to fuck off, but that kindness sinks deeper and tugs at a deep instinct to do as asked.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says as he picks the pistol up.

  ‘You asked for more water, Miss Patel?’ Konrad comes out carrying a big glass bottle.

  ‘On the table,’ Safa says bluntly. ‘Right, magazine goes in here . . . to take it out you press this . . . see?’

  Ben flicks the safety on and off a few times then ejects the magazine, which pops out of the bottom too fast for him to catch and falls from the table on to the ground. He picks it back up and takes a cup of water, half-watching as she puts hers back in and ejects it back out. He copies the actions, in and out. Safety on, safety off. Magazine in, magazine out.

  ‘Slide this back after ejecting the magazine to make sure no rounds are left inside, see?’ She slides the top section of her pistol back, showing him the empty chamber. ‘You do it . . . no, like this.’ She shows him again and watches as he fumbles with the unfamiliar weapon in his hands, which tremble from the workout. For a few moments he finds it interesting taking the gun apart and seeing how it works. She strips hers down and puts it back together. Telling him how to cock, where the release bits are and showing the internal spring and moving parts. Harry copies and pretty much does it first time while Ben gets stuck on the first bit and has to be shown piece by piece. He drinks more water. It’s more complicated than it looks with tiny things called firing pins, an extractor depressor and all sorts of wee, small, fiddly, annoying bits and he’s too hot, too hungry, his legs hurt and his face feels like it’s burning as he starts sliding back into misery.

  ‘Ben,’ she says gently, seeing the expression go blank and bringing his attention back. ‘Are you watching?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, watching her deft fingers pushing a spring thing into the back of something else. They go through it several times and not once does she show any frustration when he slows down and loses his mind to the homesickness or simply turns his head to stare down into the wide plains below.

  ‘Ben.’ She keeps that tone so soft. ‘Try again for me.’

  And it’s like that, like he is doing it for her. He nods and tries. Fiddling with small bits of metal that drop from his fingers to roll across the tabletop. She picks them up and hands them back. Harry just works quietly, seemingly learning for himself as he strips and rebuilds several times over.

  ‘Okay, that’s enough for today. Let’s get you out of the sun for a bit.’

  Harry goes to say something but stops with a hard look from Safa, and the fact that a single look from her can bring Mad Harry Madden to a silence is testament to the authority she possesses.

  Crash mats lie on the floor in the fruit room. Bright blue and clearly brand new. Head guards, thick padded gloves and other nasty-looking equipment. She nods at the sight of them, grunting in satisfaction as Harry heads straight to the long table to heft a cheesy-feet marrow up.

  ‘We messing now?’ Harry asks hopefully.

  ‘Yep, there should be eggs there.’

  ‘Eggs?’ He looks round and fixes his eyes on a wooden bowl. ‘Eggs!’ he says. ‘Where did . . . how . . . eggs! Well I never. Are they boiled?’

  He picks one up to tap on the side of the table and quickly shreds the shell away before shoving it into his mouth and chewing with a contented nod.

  ‘Eat some eggs,’ Safa says to Ben. ‘You’ll need the protein and fats, and get some fruit too for the vitamins.’

  Ben rises at the motherly tone and goes to say something but stops as that last prickle of pride tells him not to be an ungrateful prick.

  ‘I asked for some cutlery too,’ she says.

  ‘Yep.’ Harry brings them over, the bowl of eggs, fruits, knives, forks and spoons. They sit at a table slicing fruit like civilised human beings and cracking the shells from eggs to eat them down. They don’t talk. Ben wallows in pain and misery. His face and arms feel like they’re burning. He would ask for some sun cream or a hat if he could give a shit.

  ‘Ben.’ She calls his attention back to her. ‘Have some of this,’ she says, offering him a slice of the lemon–lime–melon thing. ‘It’s so nice.’

  He takes the piece and devours it quickly, suddenly realising how hungry he is.

  ‘They can bring food back,’ she says conversationally. ‘So if there’s anything you want, just say.’

  ‘Pork chops?’ Harry asks.

  ‘Probably,’ she says, smiling. ‘Can’t see why not.’

  ‘Beef steak?’ he asks as though testing her.

  ‘Er, yes.’ She grins.

  ‘Beer?’ Harry asks.

  ‘Don’t see why not,’ she says, smiling wider.

  ‘Woodbines. I’m gagging.’

  ‘What?’ she asks.

  ‘Woodbines. Smokes. Cigarettes.’

  ‘You smoke?’ she asks in genuine shock.

  ‘Of course I smoke. Everybody smokes.’

  ‘Nobody smokes now . . . or
only fucking idiots smoke now. They’re dangerous as anything.’

  ‘Ah, get off,’ he says, waving a hand at her. ‘That’s not proven.’

  ‘It bloody is,’ she scoffs. ‘You haven’t asked before, so why now?’

  He shrugs and eats. Sometimes you can’t smoke. Sometimes you can’t do the things you want. That’s life and what war means. ‘Beer and smoke at the end of the day is nice.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll ask, but you’re not smoking them in the bunker. Ben? What about you?’

  ‘Not bothered.’

  ‘Okay, well, if you think of anything, just say, yeah?’

  ‘Okay.’

  The afternoon is as hard, if not harder than the morning. From eating they go on to the crash mats, where Harry and Safa seem to have the greatest fun in the world showing each other a whole range of killing moves while Ben takes a seat and zones out, settling into a festering pit of misery. When they finish he is summoned over and ragged about, learning nothing apart from that the crash mats are soft and when he goes down he stays down until one of them tells him to get back up.

  Afternoon to evening and eventually, finally, and with everything hurting and his brain still numb, Safa brings it to a close. They eat again. Fruit and eggs. Vitamins, protein and fats.

  Back in their section he freezes in the doorway to his room, seeing folded clean grey tracksuits on the bed next to new socks, underwear, wicking tops and trousers.

  ‘Well done, Safa,’ Harry booms from inside his room.

  ‘You got them then?’ she shouts from her room. ‘Ben, you found yours?’

  He goes to snarl to tell her to fuck off and stop mithering and talking to him like a child, to leave him alone and not to bring new things because he is not staying. But he doesn’t say any of that.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ he mutters instead.

  ‘Ben, you showering first?’ she asks, crossing from her room.

  ‘Ablutions,’ Harry calls out.

  ‘Okay,’ Ben says dumbly.

  ‘Need anything else?’ she asks, hovering there watching him.

  He shakes his head. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Books or something? I remember Wikipedia said you loved to read—’

  ‘Safa,’ he snaps this time, glaring at her with a deep, bubbling anger threatening to blow, but all he gets back is a strange look that morphs into a wry smile twitching at her lips and the tiniest look of hope in her eyes.