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Authors: Kevin Brooks
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to
them?’ he said.
‘All sorts, I imagine.’
‘You’d be surprised.’
An intimate silence hung in the air for a
moment. Dirty and hard. I couldn’t break it. Whatever words I wanted to say were
stuck in the back of my throat. It was all I could do to keep looking at Fred. His great
stone head filled the room with unspoken menace.
Then, all at once, his eyes twinkled and his
mouth broke into a grin and he leaned across the table and clumped me on the
shoulder.
‘You know what our trouble is?’
he said.
‘What?’
‘You and me … we’ve
both been fucked right from the start.’
My home is a big house in the country.
It’s got six bedrooms, three bathrooms, three reception rooms, a wine cellar, a
library, riding stables, a croquet lawn, and a swimming pool. My dad owns three cars. We
have another house in California and a villa in the Algarve. And from the age of twelve
I’ve had the best education money can buy.
Yeah, Fred, you’re right: fucked from
the start.
After half an hour we tried the meeting
again. This time we stuck to the basics.
Who, or what, is our abductor?
A psycho.
A pervert.
A people collector.
What does he want?
To watch us.
To kill us.
To keep us as pets.
Where are we?
In a basement.
A cellar.
Somewhere near London?
Somewhere in Essex?
What are we going to do?
Survive.
Escape.
How are we going to survive?
Eat.
Drink.
Keep ourselves clean.
Stay calm.
Get organized.
How do we get organized?
The way we get organized, apparently, is by
drawing up a rota of duties. Which has now been done. So, from now on:
One of us takes charge of the shopping list,
logging requests throughout the day, thinking about what else we need, then writing the
list and making sure it’s in the lift by nine o’clock each evening.
One of us does the washing-up and general
cleaning. Any rubbish, put it in a bin liner and put it in the lift. (Put bin liners on
the shopping list.)
One of us waits for the lift each morning,
collects the shopping and puts it away.
And one of us cooks. Twice a day.
Nine-thirty and six-thirty. If you want anything else to eat at any other time, you have
to get it yourself.
We take it in turns, a rota system,
different duties every day.
Another question we tried to discuss at the
meeting was How Do We Get Out Of Here? And it was at this point that the meeting went
very quiet, and one by one we all looked up at the grille in the ceiling. It looked back
at us, mocking our silence with its cold white eye. All-seeing, all-hearing.
Fred broke the silence. ‘How can we
get out of here if he’s watching us all the time? We can’t even
talk
about escaping.’
‘You’re sure they’re
cameras?’ Bird said.
I nodded. ‘And microphones.’
‘And you can’t cover them
up?’
‘What do you think this is?’ Fred
said, indicating his burnt face. ‘Sunburn?’
‘Hmm,’ muttered Bird, scribbling
something in his notebook.
‘Give me that,’ I said to
him.
‘What?’
‘Your notebook.’
‘I’m keeping notes of the
meeting –’
‘Just give it here a
second.’
He reluctantly passed it over.
‘Pen?’
He passed me his pen.
I shielded the page with my hand and wrote:
We’ve all got a notebook. Keep your back to the cameras, write down any
escape ideas, bring them to the table at 10 each night. We can discuss.
Then I passed the notebook around. When
everyone had read it, I said, ‘OK?’
It was OK.
I said to Bird, ‘Have you kept a
written record of the whole meeting?’
‘Of course.’
I nodded. ‘Right, well, there’s
one more person to come. It’ll be easier if you just show him or her your notes
rather than having to go over everything again.’
‘What do you mean, one more person to
come?’ asked Anja.
‘It’s pretty obvious,
isn’t it? There are six rooms down here. Six plates, six
cups … there’s six of everything. But only five of us. There must be one
more to come.’
Wednesday, 8 February
A long
them?’ he said.
‘All sorts, I imagine.’
‘You’d be surprised.’
An intimate silence hung in the air for a
moment. Dirty and hard. I couldn’t break it. Whatever words I wanted to say were
stuck in the back of my throat. It was all I could do to keep looking at Fred. His great
stone head filled the room with unspoken menace.
Then, all at once, his eyes twinkled and his
mouth broke into a grin and he leaned across the table and clumped me on the
shoulder.
‘You know what our trouble is?’
he said.
‘What?’
‘You and me … we’ve
both been fucked right from the start.’
My home is a big house in the country.
It’s got six bedrooms, three bathrooms, three reception rooms, a wine cellar, a
library, riding stables, a croquet lawn, and a swimming pool. My dad owns three cars. We
have another house in California and a villa in the Algarve. And from the age of twelve
I’ve had the best education money can buy.
Yeah, Fred, you’re right: fucked from
the start.
After half an hour we tried the meeting
again. This time we stuck to the basics.
Who, or what, is our abductor?
A psycho.
A pervert.
A people collector.
What does he want?
To watch us.
To kill us.
To keep us as pets.
Where are we?
In a basement.
A cellar.
Somewhere near London?
Somewhere in Essex?
What are we going to do?
Survive.
Escape.
How are we going to survive?
Eat.
Drink.
Keep ourselves clean.
Stay calm.
Get organized.
How do we get organized?
The way we get organized, apparently, is by
drawing up a rota of duties. Which has now been done. So, from now on:
One of us takes charge of the shopping list,
logging requests throughout the day, thinking about what else we need, then writing the
list and making sure it’s in the lift by nine o’clock each evening.
One of us does the washing-up and general
cleaning. Any rubbish, put it in a bin liner and put it in the lift. (Put bin liners on
the shopping list.)
One of us waits for the lift each morning,
collects the shopping and puts it away.
And one of us cooks. Twice a day.
Nine-thirty and six-thirty. If you want anything else to eat at any other time, you have
to get it yourself.
We take it in turns, a rota system,
different duties every day.
Another question we tried to discuss at the
meeting was How Do We Get Out Of Here? And it was at this point that the meeting went
very quiet, and one by one we all looked up at the grille in the ceiling. It looked back
at us, mocking our silence with its cold white eye. All-seeing, all-hearing.
Fred broke the silence. ‘How can we
get out of here if he’s watching us all the time? We can’t even
talk
about escaping.’
‘You’re sure they’re
cameras?’ Bird said.
I nodded. ‘And microphones.’
‘And you can’t cover them
up?’
‘What do you think this is?’ Fred
said, indicating his burnt face. ‘Sunburn?’
‘Hmm,’ muttered Bird, scribbling
something in his notebook.
‘Give me that,’ I said to
him.
‘What?’
‘Your notebook.’
‘I’m keeping notes of the
meeting –’
‘Just give it here a
second.’
He reluctantly passed it over.
‘Pen?’
He passed me his pen.
I shielded the page with my hand and wrote:
We’ve all got a notebook. Keep your back to the cameras, write down any
escape ideas, bring them to the table at 10 each night. We can discuss.
Then I passed the notebook around. When
everyone had read it, I said, ‘OK?’
It was OK.
I said to Bird, ‘Have you kept a
written record of the whole meeting?’
‘Of course.’
I nodded. ‘Right, well, there’s
one more person to come. It’ll be easier if you just show him or her your notes
rather than having to go over everything again.’
‘What do you mean, one more person to
come?’ asked Anja.
‘It’s pretty obvious,
isn’t it? There are six rooms down here. Six plates, six
cups … there’s six of everything. But only five of us. There must be one
more to come.’
Wednesday, 8 February
A long
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