Quantum Poppers, page 4
Emma continued to talk. Tony remained calm and casual, hearing Emma’s words but without registering their meaning. His eyes flicked to her where he would nod, and then return to the kid where he would slowly shake his head. And that’s when a connection was made. The kid saw Tony and stopped screaming. Their eyes locked and the kid began approaching. This seven-year-old boy, his face contorted with fear, not pain, ran for Tony. He was mouthing something, trying to talk. As he neared he flung out his arms in a gesture of simple pleading. Tears streamed from his eyes. Tony stood, he looked to the door for a sign of the parents, for a sign that anyone else was seeing this, and then to Emma said, ‘must go toilet.’ And just as the kid reached out to touch Tony, Tony stepped back, the scrape of the chair overly loud across the din of the restaurant. And then nothing.
The kid had vanished, like an extinguished flame.
Chapter 5
‘Get your hands off me! What are you doing?’ A tight grasp pushed him along the dim corridor. The occasional fluorescent light gave the plasterboard walls a grey sheen of which he was given frequent close up views as he was hurried passed. These people sure were in a hurry. ‘Where are we?’ No explanation was given, just forceful shoves and encouraging nudges to ensure he went where they wanted. They passed a few nondescript doors the same colour as the walls until finally, at a door no different from the rest, they stopped. The corridor continued on, curving out of view. John turned and faced his captors - two men, mid-thirties in suits. In the distance another man stood, stepping back into shadow.
‘Please, explanations will be given’.
John attempted the inevitable run for freedom but the corridor, barred by the two men, was too narrow. He was shouldered to the ground by the larger of the men who stood firm. There was no retaliation, the other even reached out a hand to help him to his feet.
‘Who are you?’ John screamed, refusing the hand and pushing away from the men along the cheaply carpeted floor. It felt raw under his shaking hands.
The man who had offered his hand turned to the other and a confused look passed between them as if they had no answers to give even if they could. The large one then opened the door beside them. ‘Please,’ he said and gestured to the empty room as if it were a luxury hotel that John would be a fool to resist. It was dark. John could see nothing. He panted, but accepting this destination, which could have been a lot worse, he began pushing himself up against the wall. The corridor remained blocked as the two men simply stood, one with his arm still outstretched in a welcoming gesture as though he were a concierge hoping their guest would enjoy their stay.
‘All will be explained,’ said the other man, the first words he had spoken. ‘All will be explained, just not by us, and not right now. Mr. Johnson, this is for your own safety.’ John stared at the blackness of the room. A thin veil of light was creeping in as reluctantly as John. It did indeed look like a cheap hotel room. The raw carpet continued inside where a bed could be seen. It shimmered in the pale light. But it wasn’t the bed that interested him or the apple red carpet that stretched out into the darkness. It was the bars of shadow that faded into vision as his eyes grew accustomed to the light. They lay across the bed as if the bed itself was a prison.
The rest of that first night had been a cacophony of repeated yells and pleas. The two men had left. No further words were spoken as he had entered the room at his own pace. There had been no more shoves; there had been nowhere else to go. The larger man had indicated a light switch and after a seconds pause had moved towards it. But John had reached his arm out, grabbed his wrist and thrown it aside with an almost repulsed look in his eye. He looked at them to see the two silhouettes backlit by the light of the corridor as he stepped slowly into his black cocoon. At that precise moment he didn’t even want an explanation. This is where he was, he had to accept that, and he had silently walked into the moonlit room to sit on the bed. His head in his hands.
The men had left without a word as John stared vacantly at the floor through his fingers. There were no tears and for the first twenty minutes no movement or sound. Sleep did not come that first night as his shrieks and banging against the door began in earnest for four solid hours. The room grew naturally brighter via morning sunlight from the one small, barred window.
By the fourth day of no contact, let alone an explanation, sleep came easier. Continual banging at the door and screaming his lungs out for someone, anyone, to speak too had worn him down; there was nowhere else to go but sleep. The nights had been waking nightmares filled with thoughts of family. He could see Jessica and Jennifer, two beautiful girls now without a father. Would there be explanations for them? He doubted it. It was these endless thoughts and unanswered questions that minimised sleep for the first seventy-two hours. By the fourth day sleep begun to descend however hard he fought it. His eyes were heavy. Repressed thoughts of the other guy he had seen, the one who appeared so familiar, had been shadowed in his subconscious. This was a path he did not want to follow. He once more pushed these thoughts aside to spend precious energy on wondering whether he would see his wife at least one more time.
As his mind began to shut down, and welcome sleep was finally allowed to settle, voices from outside the door could be heard. He was straight up.
‘Someone needs to go in,’ said a faint voice. The metallic door was strong but sound found a way in. ‘Has he asked for anything?’
‘Just an explanation.’
‘Can you blame him?’
Further words were spoken but faded as the men began to walk away.
‘Hey,’ shouted John and he slammed his fist against the door. ‘Hey, come back.’
Salvia clung to the door like dead bugs on a windshield as he continued to slam and shout. ‘You’ve got to tell me what’s going on?’
‘Mr. Johnson,’ came a voice from the other side. ‘Get some sleep. I will come and see you tomorrow. Have you been fed?’
‘Yes, I’ve been fed and watered. Enough to keep me alive, but what’s the point?’
‘Please Mr. Johnson, there’s a point to all of this. I know you won’t want to hear this but we’re kind of making this up as we go along. This is new to us as well.’
‘What is new? Who is us?’ John’s voice began to break with exhaustion. He fell to his knees and struck the door with one more feeble hit.
It was two more days before John heard the rattling of keys and the turning of the lock. Since the muted words from outside there had been silence all around; the days were only broken by the three meals slotted to him through the over-sized and floor-level opening on the door. Water was on constant supply from a sink and a random selection of juices, squashes and the occasional pot of coffee accompanied his meals.
The main room contained a double bed, surprisingly comfortable, with a slight hardness that John liked. It served as a constant reminder that all of this was real. The rest of the room consisted of a small writing table but no implements with which to compose any correspondence (or suicide notes, he morbidly thought, hoping it would never come to that.) A flat screen television hung on the wall in line with the bed. The remote control that he now held in his hand was as blank and logo-less as everything else in the room. All objects were a dirty white with a sprinkling of black. Black cushions on the bed and black plastic cups for drinks. Leading off from the room was a decent sized bathroom. Again tiled in white with a black shower curtain and toilet seat. Toothbrushes, towels and flannels were all supplied and thankfully there appeared to be an endless supply of toilet roll (white) stored in the cupboard under the sink. The water, which he had drunk sporadically at first but now downed more than ever, held a pleasant chill. Hot water was on-demand 24/7 and the room remained a comfortable twenty-three degrees at all times. The gentle hum of the heating always a background droll. The only window was barred. Black curtains hung either side. He had soon discovered that even this was for aesthetic purposes only. The light was artificial, from a source within the room next door.
He had what he needed but not what he wanted. He had been treated well, and his daily room service was punctual and plentiful, but this didn’t hide the fact that he was a prisoner. In a prison of bland, cheapness – the rawness of an actual prison cell may have been easier to adjust to.
John sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the blank TV screen. When there was nothing on (which was often) it was either this or stare at the barred window. He preferred this.
He heard the approaching footsteps grow louder and the clatter of keys being removed from a pocket, but did not react. He continued to sit facing the TV with his eyes shut, breathing steadily - attempting to remain as composed as anyone could in his situation.
‘There are three more men out here,’ came a voice as the door slowly opened inwards. ‘Do not try anything.’
John almost managed a smile before opening his eyes and watched the man enter the room. He wasn’t lying, behind him stood three more men, none looked particularly threatening, each with an inquisitive look and trying to catch a glimpse of their prisoner.
‘May I come in?’ said the man leading the way.
‘You really are new at this.’
‘What do you mean by this?’
‘Kidnapping.’
‘Mr. Johnson, you have not been kidnapped.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, not quite.’ The man entered and closed the door. He had ushered the other men to stay in the corridor. He had thick black hair with grey along the sides. John thought he fit in rather well, even his suit appeared aged with streaks of grey. ‘Have you been treated well?’
‘Apart from being imprisoned against my will?’ He threw the remote down onto the bed and still sitting turned his body to face the man.
‘Yes, as I say, we had no choice in that. Matters grew out of hand and we had to act quickly. This is the best thing for you and for all of us.’
‘What is happening?’
‘You will be told, I just need you to know that you are not in any danger. You are safe here. But we will try and be more communicative with you. If there’s anything you need…’
‘My family,’ John shouted and got to his feet. The man took a step back. ‘I want my family and I want to go home.’
‘We are working on that.’
‘It's ok,’ said John and he slumped back onto the bed. ‘I’ve accepted I won’t be seeing them for a while, so I can’t get too disappointed anymore.’
‘That might be for the best.’ The man then turned and opened the door. Something about this triggered something in John. As if there was a mild threat involved.
‘You owe me the truth. That’s the only thing I’ve ever asked.’
The man turned and outside the three others had been joined by two more, each striving for a look within.
‘We’re still working on your explanation, as I said the other day, we’re not too sure what’s going on either.’
‘That doesn’t make me feel any better.’
‘As for who we are - all you need to know is that you are not in danger, your family will definitely see you again, and if there is anything else you need to make your stay more comfortable just call. My name is Bartley.’
It took six months for John to fully accommodate to his surroundings. Whilst random bursts of aggression against his captors and the surroundings (he was on his third television and fourth mirror) had grown less frequent during this time it was half a year before he fully accepted he was here for the duration. No substantial answer had been given. Bartley, among others, had assured him that he was in the best of hands. Health care would be fully supplied, he would continually be fed, they would play the perfect host – he was, however, assured that seeing the outside world, let alone his family, was out of the question. This was the cruelest punishment of all. He thought back to what he could have done to deserve such treatment and came up with nothing. He needed his wife and he needed his kids, more so than he could possibly have imagined.
He had made his surroundings as comfortable as possible. He requested flowers to give the room some kind of life and the hint that a woman shared his new home. He was allowed reading material, had made his way through over half of Stephen King’s lengthy bibliography, and was allowed access to films and music. New clothes, specific foods when requested and alcohol was gladly given in abundance. The only thing not given was an affirmative request to a phone call, just one. At this, it was made clear that all his gifts and day-to-day living accoutrements were in exchange for his silence.
The urge to flee had subsided. He was going nowhere. No one entered without making it clear there were at least three more men outside. He also recalled, from his hurried entrance to this building, a descent down stairs plus security gates and cameras. He could not leave, wherever he was.
It was September 10th according to the morning news, and that evening he sang quietly ‘Happy Birthday’ to Jennifer before crying himself to sleep.
John lifted his head out of his hands and stared at the man standing opposite him. He was drained of the required strength to spring across the room, kick the man in the face, and run out past whoever was waiting outside, and into wherever was waiting beyond. He brushed his hand through his lengthening hair and stroked the rough stubble on his chin. He put his head back in his hands.
‘I picture that moment every single night,’ he said, head still in his hands. He spoke slowly, a man who had been defeated. ‘I picture it for a second and then get no sleep as I spend all night trying to get my head round whatever the hell happened. I still can’t figure it out. And you still won’t explain to me what happened?’
The man said, 'sorry.'
John wanted to laugh. What was he expecting? It had all started at work. What an exotic locale for all this to kick off. It started at work and ended here, in the hotel room from hell.
‘My kids haven’t seen me for almost a year. Please, what happened?’
‘Sorry.’
The room was dark and he sat on a chair in the far corner of the room. Bartley stood just inside the door staring at the shape surrounded by the artificial glow from the window. John picked up a cigarette from the ashtray beside him. It had been lit minutes ago and burnt halfway down. Sitting with his head in his hands had suddenly seemed a much better idea than smoking when this man entered. He took a drag and thought back to that moment at work. The whole thing now seemed a dream. Perhaps on some level it was, yet he had long passed the point of caring either way. From work to here, via a glimpse of someone he still couldn’t accept seeing, had been a hurried exchange. They apparently were not labeling it a kidnap, but John knew no other word for what had happened to him.
He looked up again through the darkened smoke.
‘Is there any chance...’ he whispered.
‘Sorry.’
‘It was me.’
John closed his eyes, took another drag of the cigarette, and put it back in the ashtray. This was the first time, almost eleven months after his capture, that he had admitted this to himself. Vague memories stood backdrop to one undeniable fact: that it was him.
‘Sorry,’ he heard.
John opened his eyes. ‘I got hypothesis and all kinds of crazy theories as to what happened and I’m sure they’re not half as insane as the truth. Is there a chance I could see outside, walk in the open air? Christ, even eat, shit, sleep without these damn cameras on me? Just for five minutes?’
He stared directly at the man, a sorry would follow shortly.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Chapter 6
Tony’s apartment always appeared worse to him than it would be when gazed upon by others. The one rogue piece of cotton on the black carpet stared up at him like a Grand Canyon torn into the floor; the banana peel he had just this second placed on the arm of the sofa symbolised vast wastelands set to attract flies. He thought that his ground floor semi-detached flat was clean for a single male living alone but now that Emma was standing at his side these minor items shone out like bio-degrading beacons of filth.
‘Pull up a chair,’ he said as he quickly pocketed the banana skin and covered the cotton strand, sealing the abyss with a trainer. He left the video game controller on the floor. In this time of Repeat Others and thoughts of insanity, it was good to know that some things never changed. Super Mario. Run, jump, and save the princess. Pure simplicity.
The doorbell had rung, and after narrowly missing an attack of the Goombas, he had hit the pause button and answered it. Standing there was Emma. Her shoulder length hair shimmered in the early afternoon breeze and around her the day swelled in brightness as if she were the source of light radiating down his hallway and not the sun spilling out of darkening clouds behind her. They hugged briefly before heading into the lounge where they now stood, Tony with a banana skin in his pocket and Emma glancing at his foot as if contemplating why he’d made that sudden movement and what he was covering.
‘Still playing this one?’ asked Emma whilst picking up the controller.
‘Don’t unpause it. Mario’s in a very precarious position, if you’re not holding the directional pad right when you’re unpausing he falls in the lava and the last thirty-five minutes of my life will have been a waste.’
‘Just the last thirty-five minutes?’
‘Very funny,’ Tony said and Emma put the controller down onto the coffee table.
‘Coffee?’ she said as she got to her feet.
