Monday, 30 January
Tuesday, 31 January
Wednesday, 1 February
Thursday, 2 February
Friday, 3 February
Saturday, 4 February
Sunday, 5 February
Monday, 6 February
Tuesday (?), 7 February
Wednesday, 8 February
Thursday, 9 February
Friday, 10 February
Saturday, 11 February
Sunday, 12 February
Tuesday, 14 February
Wednesday, 15 February
Friday, 17 February
Sunday, 19 February
Monday, 20 February
Tuesday, 21 February
Wednesday, 22 February
Thursday, 23 February
Saturday, 25 February
Tuesday, 28 February
Wednesday, 29 (?) February
Thursday, 1 March
Sunday, 4 March
Tuesday, 6 March
Thursday, 8 March
Friday, 9 March
Sunday, 11 March
Monday, 12 March
Wednesday, 14 March
Sunday, 18 March
Monday, 19 March
Wednesday, 21 March
Saturday
Sunday
Monday
???
PENGUIN BOOKS
Kevin Brooks was born in Exeter, Devon, and he studied in Birmingham and London. He has worked in a crematorium, a zoo, a garage and a post office, before – happily – giving it all up to write books. Kevin is the award-winning author of eleven novels and lives in North Yorkshire.
BEING
BLACK RABBIT SUMMER
THE BUNKER DIARY
CANDY
IBOY
KILLING GOD
KISSING THE RAIN
LUCAS
MARTYN PIG
NAKED
THE ROAD OF THE DEAD
10.00 a.m.
This is what I know. I’m in a low-ceilinged rectangular building made entirely of whitewashed concrete. It’s about twelve metres wide and eighteen metres long. A corridor runs down the middle of the building, with a smaller corridor leading off to a lift shaft just over halfway down. There are six little rooms along the main corridor, three on either side. They’re all the same size, three metres by five, and each one is furnished with an iron-framed bed, a hard-backed chair, and a bedside cabinet. There’s a bathroom at one end of the corridor and a kitchen at the other. Opposite the kitchen, in the middle of an open area, there’s a rectangular wooden table with six wooden chairs. In each corner of the open area there’s an L-shaped bench settee.
There are no windows. No doors. The lift is the only way in or out.
The whole place looks something like this:
In the bathroom there’s a steel bath, a steel sink, and a lavatory. No mirrors, no cupboards, no accessories. The kitchen contains a sink, a table, some chairs, an electric cooker, a small fridge, and a wall-mounted cupboard. In the cupboard there’s a plastic washing-up bowl, six plastic dinner plates, six plastic glasses, six plastic mugs, six sets of plastic cutlery.
Why six?
I don’t know.
I’m the only one here.
It feels underground in here. The air is heavy, concrete, damp. It’s not damp, it just feels damp. And it smells like a place that’s old, but new. Like it’s been here a long time but never been used.
There are no light switches anywhere.
There’s a clock on the corridor wall.
The lights come on at eight o’clock in the morning, and they go off again at midnight.
There’s a low humming sound deep within the walls.
12.15 p.m.
Nothing moves.
Time is slow.
I thought he was blind. That’s how he got me. I still can’t believe I fell for it. I keep playing it over in my mind, hoping I’ll do something different, but it always turns out the same.
It was early Sunday morning when it happened. Yesterday morning. I wasn’t doing anything in particular, just hanging around the concourse at Liverpool Street station, trying to keep warm, looking out for Saturday night leftovers. I had my hands in my pockets, my guitar on my back, my eyes to the ground. Sunday morning is a good time for finding things. People get drunk on Saturday night. They rush to get the last train home. They drop stuff. Cash, cards, hats, gloves, cigarettes. The cleaners get most of the good stuff, but sometimes they miss things. I found a fake Rolex once. Got a tenner for it. So it’s always worth looking. But all I’d found that morning was a broken umbrella and a half-empty packet of Marlboro. I threw the umbrella away but kept the cigarettes. I don’t smoke, but cigarettes are always worth keeping.
So there I was, just hanging around, minding my own business, when a couple of platform staff came out of a side door and started walking towards me. One of them was a regular, a young black guy called Buddy who’s usually OK, but I didn’t know the other one. And I didn’t like the look of him. He was a big guy in a peaked cap and steel-tipped shoes, and he looked like trouble. He probably wasn’t, and they probably wouldn’t have bothered me anyway, but it’s always best to play safe, so I put my head down, pulled up my hood, and moved off towards the taxi rank.
And that’s when I saw him. The blind man. Raincoat, hat, dark glasses, white stick. He was standing at the back of a dark-coloured van. A Transit, I think. The back doors were open and there was a heavy-looking suitcase on the ground. The blind man was struggling to get the case in the back of the van. He wasn’t having much luck. There was something wrong with his arm. It was in a sling.
It was still pretty early and the station was deserted. I could hear the two platform men jangling their keys and laughing about something, and from the sound of the big guy’s clackety-clack footsteps I could tell they were moving away from me, heading off towards the escalator that leads up to McDonald’s. I waited a little while just to make sure they weren’t coming back, then I turned my attention to the blind man. Apart from the Transit van, the taxi rank was empty. No black cabs, no one waiting. There was just me and this blind man. A blind man with his arm in a sling.
I thought about it.
You could walk away if you wanted to, I told myself. You don’t have to help him. You could just walk away, nice and quiet. He’s blind, he’ll never know, will he?
But I didn’t walk away.
I’m a nice guy.
I coughed to let him know I was there, then I walked up and asked him if he needed any help. He didn’t look at me. He kept his head down. And I thought that was a bit odd. But then I thought, maybe that’s what blind people do? I mean, what’s the point of looking at someone if you can’t actually see them?
‘It’s my arm,’ he muttered, indicating the sling. ‘I can’t get hold of the suitcase properly.’
I bent down and picked it up. It wasn’t as heavy as it looked.
‘Where do you want it?’ I asked.
‘In the back,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
There was no one else in the van, no one in the driving seat. Which was kind of surprising. The back of the van was pretty empty too, just a few bits of rope, some carrier bags, a dusty old blanket.
The blind man said, ‘Would you mind putting the case up by the front seats for me? It’ll be easier to get out.’
I was beginning to feel a bit uneasy now. Something didn’t feel right. What was this guy doing here? Where was he going? Where had he been? Why was he all alone? How the hell could he drive? I mean, a blind man with a broken arm?
‘If you wouldn’t mind?’ he said.
Maybe he isn’t completely blind? I thought. Maybe he can see enough to drive? Or maybe he’s one of those people who pretend they’re disabled so they can get a special parking badge?
‘Please,’ he said. ‘I’m in a hurry.’
I shrugged off my doubts and stepped up into the van. What did I care if he was blind or not? Just get his suitcase into the van and leave him to it. Go and find somewhere warm. Wait for the day to get going. See who’s around – Lugless, Pretty Bob, Windsor Jack. See what’s happening.
I was moving towards the front seats when I felt the van lurch on its springs, and I knew the blind man had climbed up behind me.
‘I’ll show you where to put it,’ he said.
I knew I’d been had then but it was already too late, and as I turned to face him he grabbed my head and clamped a damp cloth over my face. I started to choke. I was breathing in chemicals – chloroform, ether, whatever it was. I couldn’t breathe. There was no air. My lungs were on fire. I thought I was dying. I struggled, lashing out with my elbows and legs, kicking, stamping, jerking my head like a madman, but it was no good. He was strong, a lot stronger than he looked. His hands gripped my skull like a couple of vices. After a few seconds I started to feel dizzy, and then …
Nothing.
I must have passed out.
The next thing I knew I was sitting in a wheelchair inside a large metal box. My head was all mushy and I was only half awake, and for a moment or two I genuinely thought I was dead. All I could see in front of me was a receding tunnel of harsh white light. I thought it was the tunnel of death. I thought I was buried in a metal coffin.
When it finally dawned on me that I wasn’t dead, that it wasn’t a coffin, that the large metal box was in fact just a lift, and that the lift door was open, and the tunnel of death was nothing more than a plain white corridor stretching out in front of me, I was so relieved that for a few short seconds I actually felt like laughing.
The feeling didn’t last long.
After I’d got up out of the wheelchair and stumbled into the corridor, I’m not sure what happened for a while. Maybe I passed out again, I don’t know. All I can really remember is the lift door closing and the lift going up.
I don’t think it went very far.
I heard it stop – g-dung, g-dunk.
It was nine o’clock at night now. I was still sick and dopey and I kept burping up a horrible taste of gassy chemicals. I was scared to death. Shocked. Shaking. Totally confused. I didn’t know what to do.
I went into one of the rooms and sat down on the bed.
Three hours later, at twelve o’clock precisely, the lights went off.
I sat there for a while in the petrified darkness, listening hard for the sound of the lift coming back down. I don’t know what I was expecting, a miracle maybe, or perhaps a nightmare. But nothing happened. No lift, no footsteps. No cavalry, no monsters.
Nothing.
The place was as dead as a graveyard.
I thought the blind man might be waiting for me to fall asleep, but there was no chance of that. I was wide awake. And my eyes were staying open.
But I suppose I must have been more tired than I thought. Either that or I was still suffering from whatever he drugged me with. Probably a bit of both.
I don’t know what time it was when I finally fell asleep.
It was still dark when I woke up this morning. I didn’t have any of that ‘where am I?’ feeling you’re supposed to get when you wake up in a strange place. As soon as my eyes opened I knew where I was. I still didn’t know where I was, of course, but I knew it was the same unknown darkness I’d gone to sleep in. I recognized the underground feel of the air.
The room was blacker than anything. Lightless. Sightless. I groped my way to the door and went out into the corridor, but that was no better. Dark as hell. I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or shut. Couldn’t see a thing. Didn’t know what time it was. Couldn’t see the clock. Couldn’t even guess what time it was. There’s nothing to guess from. No windows, no view, no sky, no sounds. Just solid darkness and that unnerving low humming in the walls.
I felt like nothing. Existing in nothing.
Black all over.
I kept touching the walls and tapping my foot on the floor to convince myself that I was real.
I had to go to the bathroom.
I was about halfway along the corridor, feeling my way along the wall, when all of a sudden the lights came on. Blam! A silent flash, and the whole place was lit up in a blaze of sterile white. Scared the life out of me. I couldn’t move for a good five minutes. I just stood there with my back against the wall, trying hard not to wet myself.
The clock on the wall was ticking.
Tick tock, tick tock.
And my eyes were drawn to it. It seemed really important to know what time it was, to see movement. It somehow seemed to mean something to me. A sign of life, I suppose. Something to rely on.
It was five past eight.
I went to the bathroom.
At nine o’clock, the lift came back down again.
I was poking around in the kitchen at the time, trying to find something to use as a weapon, something sharp, or heavy, or sharp and heavy. No luck. Everything is either bolted down, welded to the wall, or made of plastic. I was looking inside the cooker, wondering if I could rip out some bits of metal or something, when I heard the lift starting up – g-dung, g-dunk, a heavy whirring noise, a solid clunk, a sharp click …
And then the sound of the lift coming down – nnnnnnnnnn …
I grabbed a plastic fork and went out into the corridor. The lift door was shut but I could hear the lift getting closer – nnnnnnnnnnnn …
My muscles tensed. My fingers gripped the plastic fork. It felt pathetic, useless. The lift stopped. G-dunk. I snapped the end off the fork, rubbed the jagged end with my thumb and watched as the lift door opened – mmm-kshhh-tkk.
Nothing.
It was empty.
When I was a little kid I used to have recurring dreams about a lift. The dream took place in a big tower block in the middle of town, right next to a roundabout. I didn’t know what the building was. Flats, an office building, something like that. I didn’t know what town it was either. It wasn’t my town, I knew that. It was a big place, kind of grey, with lots of tall buildings and wide grey streets. A bit like London. But it wasn’t London. It was just a town. A dream town.
In my dream I’d go into the tower block and wait for the lift, watching the lights, and when the lift came down I’d step inside, the door would close, and I’d suddenly realize that I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know which floor I wanted. Which button to press. I didn’t know anything. The lift would start up, get moving, and then the dream-panic would set in. Where am I going? What am I going to do? Should I press a button? Should I shout for help?
I can’t remember anything else about it.
This morning, when the lift came down and the door slid open, I kept my distance for a while, just standing well back and staring at it. I don’t know what I was waiting for. Just to see if anything happened, I suppose. But nothing did. Eventually, after about ten minutes or so, I cautiously moved closer and looked inside. I didn’t actually go inside, I just stood by the open door and looked around. There wasn’t much to see. No controls. No buttons, no lights. No hatchway in the ceiling. Nothing but a perspex leaflet-holder screwed into the far wall. Clear perspex, A4 size. Empty.
There’s a matching leaflet-holder fixed to the corridor wall outside the lift. This one’s filled with blank sheets of A4 paper, and there’s a ballpoint pen clipped to the wall beside it.
???
It’s nearly midnight now. I’ve been here for nearly forty hours. Is that right? I think so. Anyway, I’ve been here a long time and nothing has happened. I’m still here. Still alive. Still staring at the walls. Writing these words. Thinking.
A thousand questions have streamed through my head.
Where am I?
Where’s the blind man?
Who is he?
What does he want?
What’s he going to do to me?
What am I going to do?
I don’t know.
All right, what do I know?
I know I haven’t been hurt. I’m all in one piece. Legs, arms, feet, hands. Everything’s in working order.
I know I’m hungry.
And frightened.
And confused.
And angry.
My pockets have been emptied. I’d had a £10 note hidden away in one of my socks, and now it’s gone. He must have searched me.
Bastard.
I think he knows who I am. God knows how, but he must do. It’s the only thing that makes sense. He knows I’m Charlie Weems’s son, he knows my dad’s stinking rich, he’s taken me for the money. Kidnapped me. That’s what it is. A kidnapping. He’s probably been in touch with Dad already. Rung him up. Got his number from somewhere, rung him up and demanded a ransom. Half a million in used notes in a black leather suitcase, drop it off at a motorway service station. No police or he’ll cut my ears off.
Yeah, that’s it. It has to be.
A straightforward kidnapping.
Dad’s probably speeding down the motorway right now, whacked out of his head on brandy and dope, tired and grouchy, pissed off with me for costing him big again. I can just see his face, all scrunched up, his bloodshot eyes squinting through the windscreen at the glare of motorway lights, muttering madly to himself. Yeah, I can see him. He’s probably wondering if he should have tried bargaining for me, offered 150K, settled for 300.
First thing he’ll say when he gets me back is, ‘Where the hell have you been for the last five months? I’ve been worried stupid.’
The lights have gone out.
8.15 a.m.
Day three.
I haven’t eaten since Saturday.
I’m starving.
Why isn’t he feeding me? What’s the matter with him? Why doesn’t he show himself? Why doesn’t he threaten me, get tough, tell me to shut up, do as you’re told and you won’t get hurt … why doesn’t he do something? Anything.
Why am I still here?
Where’s Dad?
I’m beginning to think he’s refused to pay the ransom. That’d be just like Dad. I can just imagine him thinking it’s all a joke, or a set-up. That I’ve kidnapped myself. Yeah, that’s it. Mixed-up rich kid with semi-famous father, desperate for attention, sets up his own kidnapping to put one over on his dad.
Shit.
I’m so hungry.
There’s a bible in the bedside cabinet. Last night I got so bored I picked it up and started leafing through it. Then I realized that I wasn’t that bored, and I put it back in the drawer.
Each room has one. I’ve checked. Bible in the top drawer, blank notebook and pen in the middle. This notebook, this pen. The drawers have locks and there’s a little key on the top of each cabinet. Six keys, six notebooks, six pens, six rooms, six plates …
Six?
No, I haven’t worked it out yet.
The notebooks are good quality – black-leather covers, fresh white pages. Blank pages. Lots of blank pages. I don’t know why, but that bothers me.
The pen’s a Uni-ball Eye, Micro, black. Waterproof/fade-proof. Made by the Mitsubishi Pencil Co. Ltd.
Just in case you’re interested.
It’s quarter to nine now.
The lights have been on for forty-five minutes.
Last night I spent some time sharpening the broken plastic fork. I only had my fingernails and teeth to work with, but I think I did a pretty good job. It doesn’t look like much, and I don’t think I could kill anyone with it, but it’s sharp enough to do some damage.
If I’m right, the lift will come down in five minutes.
It did. Only this time it wasn’t empty.
There was a little girl in there.
When I first saw her, my heart iced over and my brain went numb. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything. It was too much to take in. She was sitting in the wheelchair, the same wheelchair I’d arrived in, kind of slumped to one side, with her eyes closed and her mouth half open. Her hair was all messed up and knotted, and her clothes were crumpled and covered in dust. Tear stains darkened her cheeks.
I didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what to feel. Didn’t know anything. All I could do was stand there with the sharpened plastic fork in my hand, staring like an idiot at this poor little girl.
Then my heart grew hot and a rage of emotions welled up inside me. Anger, pity, fear, panic, hatred, confusion, despair, sadness, madness. And I wanted to scream and shout and tear the walls down. I wanted to hit something, hit someone. Hit him. How could he do this? How could anyone do this? She’s just a girl, for God’s sake. She’s just a little girl.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
Think, I told myself.
Think.
I opened my eyes and studied the girl, looking for signs of life. Her eyes were still closed, her lips not moving.
Breathe … please breathe.
I waited, watching.
After a long ten seconds or so, her head twitched, she gave a little gulp, and her eyes fluttered open. I shook the paralysis from my body, hurried over to the lift, and wheeled her out.
Her name’s Jenny Lane. She’s nine years old. She was on her way to school this morning when a policeman stopped her in the street and told her that her mum had been in an accident.
‘How did you know he was a policeman?’ I asked her.
‘He had a uniform and a hat. He showed me his badge. He said he’d take me to the hospital.’
She started crying again then. She was in a terrible state. Streaming tears, shocked eyes, shaking like a leaf. She had a slight graze on her lip, and her knee was cut and bruised. Worst of all, she was breathing really fast. Short, sharp, gaspy little breaths. It was scary. I felt completely helpless. I don’t know what you’re supposed to do with little girls in shock. I just don’t know stuff like that.
After I’d got her out of the lift, I took her to the bathroom and waited outside while she got herself cleaned up. Then I got her a drink of water and took her back to my room and tried to make her comfortable. It was the best I could do. Settle her down. Comfort her. Talk to her. Give her a smile. Ask her if she was all right.
‘Are you all right?’
She sniffed and nodded.
‘Are you hurt?’
She shook her head. ‘My tummy feels funny.’
‘Did he put a cloth over your mouth?’
She nodded again.
‘What about your knee?’
‘I knocked it. It’s all right.’
‘Did he … ?’
‘What?’
‘Did he … ?’ I coughed to cover my embarrassment. ‘Did he touch you or anything?’
‘No.’ She wiped her nose. ‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know. Upstairs somewhere.’
‘What’s upstairs?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What’s he called?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is he coming down here?’
‘I don’t think so.’
She looked around. ‘What is this place? Do you live here?’
‘No, the man brought me here.’
‘What for?’
‘I don’t know.’
Don’t know, don’t know, don’t know … probably not the most comforting answers in the world, but at least she wasn’t crying any more. Her breathing was beginning to improve too.
I asked her where she lived.
‘1 Harvey Close,’ she said.
I smiled. ‘Where? What town?’
‘Moulton.’
‘Moulton in Essex?’
‘Yes.’
I nodded, then nodded again, trying to think of something else to say. I’m not that good at small talk. I don’t know what you’re supposed to say to nine-year-old girls.
I said, ‘What time was it when the policeman stopped you?’
‘About half past seven.’
‘Isn’t that a bit early for school?’
‘We were going on a trip to the nucular power station.’
‘Nuclear.’
‘What?
‘Nothing. Is that why you’re not wearing school uniform, because you were going on a school trip?’
‘Uh-huh.’
She was wearing a little red jacket, a T-shirt, jeans, and trainers. There was a picture of a tiger on her T-shirt.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked me.
‘Linus.’
‘What?’
‘Linus,’ I repeated, as I almost always have to. ‘Lye-nus.’
‘That’s a funny name.’
I smiled. ‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Is there anything to eat, Lye-nus?’
‘Not at the moment.’
I looked down at the trainers on her feet. Newish but cheap. Stuck-on stripes. Frayed laces.
I said, ‘What do your mum and dad do, Jenny?’
‘Why?’
‘I was just wondering, that’s all.’
She pulled at some knots in her hair. ‘Dad works at Homebase. He doesn’t like it much.’
‘What about your mum?’
She shrugged. ‘She’s my mum.’
‘Does she work?’
She shook her head. ‘Nuh-uh.’
‘You’re not rich, then?’
Her face creased into a frown. ‘Rich?’
‘Forget it. Here.’ I passed her my hooded jacket. The room wasn’t cold, but she was starting to shiver again and her face was really pale. ‘Put it on, it’ll keep you warm.’
So, no kidnapping then. Not for the money anyway. He’s not going to get much of a ransom from a guy who works at Homebase, is he? And besides, if he knows who I am, why bother kidnapping anyone else? I mean, you don’t rob a bank and then stop on the way out to break into a bubblegum machine, do you? Not unless you’re an idiot.
There’s no point. No reason.
No kidnap.
Which means …
What?
I have to get out of here, that’s what it means.
We have to get out of here.
The trouble is, I can’t see how. Everything is solid concrete. The walls, the floor, the ceiling. The only way out is the lift. But that’s hopeless. When the lift comes down the door stays open. When the lift goes up the door closes. The door is solid metal. Very thick. And the lift itself looks indestructible. And even if I could get through the door when the lift is up, what then? I don’t know what’s behind it. I don’t how high the lift shaft is. It could be thirty metres of sheer concrete for all I know.
And anyway, he’s watching us.
This afternoon, while Jenny was sleeping, I had another look round. A really good look round. Walking about, checking this, checking that, poking around, kicking walls, stamping on the floor.
It’s hopeless.
It’s like trying to escape from a sealed box.
After a while, I sat down at the dining table and stared at the ceiling. I couldn’t help thinking of him up there. What’s he doing? Is he sitting down, standing up, walking about? Is he laughing? Grinning? Picking his nose? What’s he doing? Who is he? What? Who? Why?
Who are you?
What do you want?
What’s your kick?
What’s your thing?
And it was then, just as all these questions were floating around in my head, that I suddenly realized what I was staring at. There was a small circular grille set in the ceiling, directly above the dining table. I’d been looking at it for the last few minutes, but my eyes hadn’t taken it in. A small circular grille, about 10 cm in diameter, made of white metal mesh, fixed flush to the ceiling. I stared hard, making sure I wasn’t imagining it, and then I looked round and saw more of them. One, two, three, four. Four of them, spread out evenly along the length of the corridor.
I got up and checked the rest of the rooms.
The grilles are everywhere. There’s one in the lift, one in the kitchen, one in the bathroom, one in each of the other rooms.
I went back and got up on the table for a closer look.
Each grille is a perfect circle, split in two. A faint breeze of warmish air comes out of one side, and an equally faint current is sucked in the other. Ventilation, I suppose.
Heating.
But there’s more.
On either side of the grille there’s a little hole cut in the mesh. Embedded in each of the holes are two little buggy things. One is a flat silver disc about the size of a 5p coin, the other is like a small white bead with a tiny glass eye at the end.
Like this.
Microphone.
Camera.
Shit.
I tried to tear it out. I reached up and dug my fingers into the grille, trying to wrench it out, but I couldn’t get hold of anything. The bugs are fixed too tight, and the grille is too strong to break. I picked at it, studied it, whacked it with the palm of my hand. I whacked it again. Punched it. Hard. But all that did was rip the skin off my knuckles.
And that’s when I lost it.
Something inside me snapped, and I just started spitting and screaming at the grille like a lunatic. ‘You BASTARD! What do you want? Why don’t you show your bastard face, eh? Why don’t you do something? WHAT DO YOU WANT?’
He didn’t answer me.
11.30 p.m.
I’ve calmed down a bit now. I’ve thought calm thoughts and silenced the rage in my head. Underneath it all, I’m still dead scared and I’m still really angry and I still feel like screaming my heart out, but I’m not on my own any more. I can’t just do what I want to do. Ranting and raving about things might make me feel a little bit better, but it isn’t going to do Jenny any good. She’s got enough on her plate as it is. The last thing she needs is a madman for company.
She cried for a long time when she woke up this afternoon, big snotty tears that streamed down her face and soaked into her clothes. Then she curled up into a ball and lay on the floor for a while, muttering quietly to herself. I didn’t like that, it worried me. I felt better when she started crying again. This time the sobbing wasn’t quite so snotty and wet, but it was a lot wilder. She called out for her mum and dad, she shook and shivered, she wailed, she bawled.
I did my best.
I sat with her.
Watched over her.
She sobbed, she howled, her body heaved, and I just sat with her, crying a few silent tears myself.
I wish I could have done more to help her.
But I didn’t have any more.
Later, after Jenny had cried herself dry, she said she was hungry. She didn’t moan about it or anything. She just said, ‘I’m hungry.’
‘Me too,’ I told her.
‘I bet you’re not as hungry as me.’
She was probably right. I don’t actually feel that hungry any more. I know I am, though. A couple of times today I felt really tired, like I didn’t have any energy left, and I’m sure it’s because I haven’t eaten anything for a long time. I’m not too worried about it yet. I’ve been hungry before. I know what it’s like. You can go a long time without food.
Shit. Thinking about it has made me feel hungry again.
Anyway, it’s a relief to know that Jenny’s hungry. I mean, that’s a good sign, isn’t it? Like when you’re ill and you don’t have any appetite, and then you start getting better and you begin to feel hungry again.
That’s good, isn’t it?
I don’t know.
What do I know? I’m just a kid. I’m sixteen years old. I don’t know anything about looking after people. No one’s ever looked after me, and I’ve only ever looked after myself.
But still, my gut feeling tells me that Jenny’s feeling a bit better. It’s not good that she’s hungry, obviously. But I’d be a lot more worried if she wasn’t.
Earlier on this evening, when I was putting the wheelchair back in the lift, Jenny asked me what the perspex thing on the wall was for. She called it a tray.
‘What’s that tray for, Linus?’
‘I don’t know.’
She studied it for a while, then turned her attention to the one on the corridor wall. She looked thoughtful. Clear brown eyes, a curious little mouth.
‘Why don’t we ask him for some food?’ she said. ‘Send him a note.’
‘He knows we’re hungry,’ I said.
She reached up and took a sheet of paper from the leaflet-holder. ‘Maybe he wants us to ask. Some people are like that. They won’t give you anything unless you ask.’
I looked at her. She reached up and picked the pen off the wall, then crouched down, put the sheet of paper on the floor and got ready to write.
‘What shall I ask for?’ she said.
I couldn’t help smiling. ‘Ask him to let us go.’
She wrote: Please let us go.
‘What else?’ she said.
‘Ask him what he wants.’
She wrote: What do you want.
‘Don’t forget the question mark.’
She added the question mark, then wrote: Please give us some food. Bread. Cheese. Apples. Crisps. Choclate. Milk. And some tea.
‘You like tea?’ I asked her.