The Bunker Diary by Kevin Brooks Read Free Book Online Page A

was trying to sound disgusted and hurt,
but it didn’t quite work.
    I sighed. ‘The washing-up bowl from
the kitchen is missing. My bet is that you’re hiding it under your sheet.
You’ve been peeing in it, haven’t you? I can smell it from here.’
    ‘How
dare
you?’
    I suddenly felt very tired.
    ‘Listen, lady,’ I said, ‘I
know it’s not nice being watched all the time, but we’re all in this
together. Think about what you’re doing. You pee in the washing-up bowl, you empty
it out in the bathroom, you put it back in the sink. We wash our plates in the bowl, we
eat off the plates, we get germs from your piss, we get sick, we die. Is that what you
want?’
    Her face was bright red. ‘I was going
to –’
    ‘No, you weren’t. Look, you
can’t just think about yourself all the time. You can’t just hide away in
here and hope that everything will go away.’
    Her eyes blazed for a second, then she
looked down, ashamed. ‘I’m scared.’
    ‘We’re all scared.’ I
picked up the poncho/sheet and threw it on the bed. ‘If you need to use the
lavatory, use that. And make sure you wash the bowl thoroughly when you put it
back.’
    God, this place is getting to me.
    After the lift went up this evening I spent
some time staring at the closed door. Staring and thinking. Thinking and staring.
It’s a hell of a door. Smooth, silver, grainy, solid, sealed. No gaps atthe side, no gaps at the top, no gaps at the bottom. No markings. No
flaws. No scratches.
    After staring at it for a while I got a
saucepan from the kitchen and gave the door a good hard whack. It didn’t do any
good, but it made me feel a bit better. I hit it a few more times, then kicked it, then
dropped the pan and slapped the door with both hands. A bolt of lightning shot through
my body and knocked me to the floor.
    The door was electrified.
    That was two hours ago.
    My hands are still tingling.
    Tomorrow is Sunday. I’ve been here a
week. Seven days. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime, other times it feels like no time
at all.
    Memories come and go.
    Home, the house we lived in before Mum died.
Dad. School. The station, the subways, the big metal sculpture at
Broadgate … it’s all gone for now, another world, another planet. Light
years away. But the little things … I still remember the little things.
Half-formed memories of growing up, little stories, myths. Moments. Street things.
Timeless things. And things that aren’t so timeless. Like last Sunday morning. I
can still remember the feel of the platform under my feet, the smooth grey concrete,
cold and flat. I can feel the weight of my guitar digging into my shoulder. I can hear
the
dong
of the E-string as the guitar bounces against my back. What else can I
hear? Sunday morning sounds. Pigeons scuffling about. Early morning traffic. The big
platform-guy’s steel-tipped shoes clack-clacking on the concourse. Bully-boy
shoes. Clack clack. Clack clack. Clack clack. Thenthe sounds fade, the
film in my head jumps forward, and I’m in the back of the blind man’s van.
The van lurches on its springs and I know he’s climbed up behind me and I know
I’ve been had, but it’s already too late. He grabs my head and clamps a wet
cloth over my face and I start to choke. I’m breathing in chemicals. I can’t
breathe. There’s no air. My lungs are on fire. I think I’m dying. I
struggle, lashing out with my elbows and legs, kicking, stamping, jerking my head around
like a madman, but it’s no good. He’s strong, a lot stronger than he looks.
His hands grip my skull like a couple of vices. After a few seconds I start to feel
dizzy, and then …
    Nothing.
    Next thing I know it’s seven days
later and I’m still sitting here thinking about it. And what’s really
annoying is I’m no wiser now than I was then. I still don’t know where I am.
I still don’t know what I’m doing here. I still don’t know what he
wants. I still don’t know how to get out. I still don’t know what