The Detainee Page 7

  “No, no, I was just looking after it, Big Guy!” he reassured me. “You know what they’re like ’round here.”

  “Yeah, I know what they’re like!” I told him. “They’ll help themselves to a guy’s personal effects even before they know he’s dead.”

  “Exactly!” he agreed. “And I didn’t want that happening to you.”

  The following few days found me doing more thinking than I had in a long time, or maybe a different kind of thinking. Living on the Island dries up your brain. Once you get used to it they may as well stick your head in a can and seal it off. From then on, nothing changes until you die. A brain needs stimulation, especially an old one like mine. And this woman who lives beneath us, this ex-kid from the Camp who wants to be my friend, is it. My mind’s suddenly bursting back into life, resuming operations, doing its best to get back up to speed. I tell you, it disturbs me, but it excites me too.

  When I walked away from the tunnel entrance that day I wasn’t sure I’d ever go back. But as the days went by I thought of little else. I mean, no matter how fraught, how uncertain the situation, it is something. And, Jesus, I need that. We all do. However, the longer I put it off, the less confident I became. Did she really want me down there? An old person? And a grouchy one at that? Or was it just a case of anything being better than isolation and loneliness?

  I guess I’ve been putting the brakes on, not letting the situation get away from me, but it’s become more and more difficult. It’s been over a week now, and finally I’ve acknowledged that I really don’t have a choice, that even if she rejects me, I have to go back.

  It was one of those cold but mercifully blowy mornings when you could almost kid yourself you’re not living on a stinking mound of rotting crap. Flocks of seagulls wheeled around and around overhead, screeching and calling, the strength of the wind enabling them to stand in midair like snowflakes frozen in their fall. In the distance I could see one of the garbage boats coming over from the Mainland, the weight of its load dragging it deep in the water. Down by the pier the kids would be starting to gather, thousands of them, all pushing and shoving each other, jostling for position.

  I ain’t ever seen it myself but I’m told that when the stuff’s unloaded they go crazy, throwing themselves in amongst it even before it hits the ground, so that it falls on them like shit raining out of the sky. Not that they care. All that matters is getting your hands on the plum items—anything of value. Inevitably, fights break out, kids knocking each other over, wrenching things out of each other’s hands. Can you imagine? Filthy, ragged little urchins—somebody’s children, somebody’s son or daughter—having to fight each other over garbage.

  Several times on my way over I found my pace slackening. In fact, the whole journey was punctuated by milestones of doubt and indecision. I had this idea she might’ve changed her mind—that I’d be intruding somehow.

  I approached the entrance with all the care of a bird returning to its nest. Watching and waiting, going forward a few steps, hesitating, forward a few steps more, till I was finally satisfied no one was around and I could dart over.

  I had a bad moment or two thinking I’d come to the wrong pile of rubble, unable to locate the door, then spotted the wire handle and wrenched it open.

  It made me feel a whole lot better to see the candles she’d promised to leave me just inside the door. Lord knows what I would’ve done if they hadn’t been there—slipped back out again, I reckon.

  I lit one and slowly began to make my way down the long slope to the main hall (it’s weird, you can still see the direction signs: “South Side—Through to the shops, Exit to Aquarium-Land,” that kind of thing), then down a farther tunnel to the living area. But she wasn’t there. I started to feel really uncomfortable, to wonder if maybe I should leave. But I’d come this far, and anyway, you never know with her. I wasn’t looking for light, I was looking for darkness. I’d have hated to start blundering my way out of there and walk straight into her.

  The only other place I could think to look was the garden. There’s a long, straight stretch of tunnel that leads to it, with a sudden swell of light at the end, like the garden’s an altar or something, and as I got nearer, I could see her squatting down, digging vigorously. I started to scuff my feet, to walk a little heavier, anything to let her know I was coming. But the closer I got, the more I understood that she already knew, that she’d probably been listening to my clumsy approach for some time.

  “Hi,” she called.

  “How you doing?”

  “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to come.” She smiled, standing up to meet me.

  “Oh . . . Well, you know . . .”

  For some reason, I couldn’t finish the sentence. I guess in part cuz she was obviously so delighted to see me, but also cuz, well, she hadn’t exactly undergone a transformation, but she had done something about her appearance. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about “girly” stuff, that ain’t her at all. She probably just did it out of politeness. Prior to me she hadn’t seen anyone in years; it’s no wonder she stopped bothering. But there she was in clothes that, though a rough mixture of men’s and women’s, were still recognizable as such. She’d also bathed, brushed her hair and tied it back, and looked altogether more wholesome and human.

  The only problem was, by doing that she made me realize she’s considerably younger than I first thought. More like thirty than forty, and, as if I needed reminding, a damn sight closer to the kids’ age than mine. Which was probably why I felt so thrown. Already I was telling myself that coming here had been a mistake.

  “Oh er . . . don’t worry,” I blurted out. “I was real careful coming in.”

  She shrugged. “I wasn’t worried.”

  Again we fell silent. I felt so uncertain of what I was doing here it was almost hurting. “Can I help you with anything?” I offered.

  I think she was on the point of saying no when she changed her mind. “Yes, okay,” she said, and handed me a shovel to dig out some potatoes.

  I don’t know whether it was what she had in mind, but having something to do made me feel a whole lot better. Soon I began to relax and the words started coming out naturally rather than having to be watched and weighed over. Nothing that deep, mind. Just everyday stuff: the garden, the weather, but it helped us to create a common foundation from where we could start to build.

  A little later I scooped up the potatoes and we ambled back to the living area. Things were slowly becoming that bit more personal, more meaningful, as if we both knew we had an awful lot of ground to cover.

  For sure I wasn’t the only one who’d been doing a lot of thinking. She’d come up with a number of questions, most of them prompted by the novelty of having an old person to talk to. She had a real thirst to know how Villagers felt about everything—their perspective and history.

  “You never saw it coming?” she said.

  “Well, kind of, but . . . you know, human nature ain’t it. We got this blind faith in the future—or we used to. Even after the Meltdown, when so many lost everything and were blowing their brains out, or making bonfires out of everything they owned rather than let it be repossessed, most of us still thought it would turn around. I mean, queues for jobs, people begging, soup lines—most generations have seen that at one point or another. On the other hand,” I added, sighing, “when they introduced punishment satellites . . .”

  “That was when you knew?”

  I paused for a moment, then gave this little grunt. “You wanna know something? Even when they told me they were sending me out here, I still thought it might be okay. I was actually fool enough to believe that ‘self-sufficiency’ shit they gave us. I remember coming over on the boat feeling more optimistic than I had in years, excited at the prospect of making a new start. Lots of us were. It was only when we got here, when we saw the place and realized we’d never be allowed off, that it finally struck home.”

  The odd thing is, normally I’m not much of one f
or talking about myself. I’m more comfortable listening to others. But something about the tunnels, the dark, the candles, yeah, if I must admit it, even her blindness and lack of scrutiny, prompts me into honesty. Mind you, I was a little taken aback when she asked me if I had a partner in the Village. I mean, I know it’s one of those questions, but I still wasn’t expecting it.

  “Nah. Not me,” I replied.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. Never had one.”

  “Really?”

  “No one serious.”

  She thought about that for a moment. “Don’t you want anyone?”

  I took so long to answer that eventually I think she sensed my discomfort and took pity on me. “Never the right one at the right time, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  There was a pause while she sought a new topic, but for some reason I felt compelled to repay her inquiry. “What about you?” I asked. “Wasn’t there anyone in the Camp?”

  She hesitated for a moment, this slightly haunted expression coming to her face. “No. You can’t have a relationship down there.”

  At that moment, almost as if our mutual discomfort had created it, one of the winds that occasionally get up in the tunnels began to howl down upon us. I don’t understand the scientific principle. Apart from the grille above the garden, and the entrance up top, as far as I know the whole complex is more or less sealed. So how come we periodically get these winds hurtling through? First time I experienced it (when I was in and out of consciousness), I didn’t know what the hell was going on. It got into my head, it got into my dreams. I thought it was a train pounding around. I mean, you get used to it, apart from when it whips up smoke and ash from the fire, or blows out a candle or something, but I still don’t understand what causes it.

  For several seconds it buffeted and swore at us, then, like some retreating stampede, it swept off into the distance. My eyes hadn’t left Lena for a moment, no more than that disturbed expression had left her face. Suddenly everything had stopped; all our unchecked outpouring and confessional honesty had ground to a halt. The raising of the subject of relationships had meant that, for the first time, both of us had something we preferred to hang on to.

  I don’t know what it was for her, but I knew all too well what it was for me. I know it’s going to sound pathetic, maybe you’ll even laugh, but just once I wanted to tell someone how lonely I am; that I’ve been this way most of my life, that barely a night goes by when I don’t reach across my bed and wonder what it would be like to have someone there. Okay, I know it’s not exactly what you expect from a big guy. We’re supposed to have axes for hearts and bullets for brains, but we got our emotional needs too. I mean, they tell you there’s someone for everyone, right? No one ever says: “No, sorry, what we mean is, there’s someone for everyone ’cept big guys.” So where is she, for chrissake? Dead of some incurable disease? Run over by a cab? Or did she just get tired of waiting and marry someone else? And if she did, how’s that going to work out when she was meant for me? I mean, I don’t want to complain, but this whole relationship thing could’ve been arranged a whole lot better.

  Finally, we diverted onto something else, went around the obstruction rather than through it, and the atmosphere between us returned to what it had been.

  I told her all sorts of stuff: childhood memories, things about my parents, about Mr. Meltoni and his wife and daughters. And she filled in a lot of space around her. In total she was on the landfills for about twelve years. Can you believe that? Most of the time sorting, but for a while she was also on other details. Like cooking or gardening, or, as her father had given her a good grounding in mathematics, supervising the warehouses.

  I mean, to look at the Camp from up in the Old City, it appears to be utter chaos, but greed is a great organizer. Over the years De Grew and his Wastelords have found the most efficient ways of extracting everything of value from that place—no matter what the cost.

  “Don’t you have any friends?” I asked. “Wasn’t there anyone you trusted enough to tell them about this place?”

  She shook her head. “Some days, yes. Other days, no.”

  I took her to mean that drugs were the problem—with that kind of inducement you wouldn’t be able to rely on anyone.

  “When I first arrived from the Mainland, I was desperate to make friends. You soon learn though. Life is unbelievably cheap. Those here today might not be tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Kids die all the time.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “Accidents, mostly. But fights, too. Run-ins with the Wastelords.”

  “Jesus. No wonder you don’t miss the place.”

  For hour after hour we exchanged views about almost every aspect of our lives, old and new. And yet, the one thing neither of us chose to discuss—a topic so carefully avoided you might’ve thought it was mined—was what happened in the Village on foggy nights. Several times one of us said something that looked like it might lead that way, but the moment they did the other took off in the opposite direction, as if they were rebounding off the discomfort. In any case, the more I get to know her, the less I believe her capable of doing something like that. But I still don’t want to discuss it.

  I stayed as late as I could. I’ve never had a conversation like that before—certainly not with a woman—and it was a hard thing to leave. However, I knew the light must be fading up top and there was no way I was going to risk being out at night again. This time I told her I’d come back a lot sooner, within a day or two, and I meant it.

  It’s totally irrational, but when I came to say good-bye I felt guilty that I was leaving her that way—alone down there in the dark. It don’t make any difference to her, but all the way up to the entrance I kept wanting to go back, as if I was taking away life rather than light.

  Even when I got outside I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Those miles of tunnels—that whole world in complete darkness. Jeez, it would frighten most sighted people out of their minds. I mean, I realize it’s simply a case of someone adapting to their circumstances, but I can’t help but feel a certain admiration for her. In fact, despite her age, I’m beginning to really like her. I feel good down there. Comfortable. Something else, too. Something I never would’ve expected, not from her, not from anyone—she inspires me. If she can triumph over her problems, then maybe I can still triumph over mine.

  I don’t know if that was why I did it. It was certainly out of character, but on my way back to the Village I suddenly ran to the top of the nearest mound of garbage and let out the loudest, longest yell you could imagine. It must’ve gone right across the Island, skimmed over the water, and ended up on the Mainland. My voice, my cry, my echo, over there. And maybe, you know, just maybe, one day I’d be back over there too.

  Again I shouted, even louder this time. I wanted them to hear me on the Mainland. I wanted them to hear me down in the Camp. This big old bastard yelling at the top of his voice, giving it everything he’d got in an act of wholesale defiance. I want to go free! The flame may be weaker, it may occasionally flicker or threaten to go out, but sure as hell it still burns, and I guess I owe that to Lena.

  Which made it something of an irony that, as I approached the Village, I glanced out toward the ocean and saw this huge bank of fog moving in on us.

  CHAPTER SIX

  All throughout the Village people were battening down in that grim resigned manner they have when a fog’s coming. Like they know it has to be done and the effort made, but only cuz it’s in everyone’s best interest to perpetuate the myth that we have some kind of control. Which, of course, is a joke. We might as well knit ourselves bulletproof vests, or staple together a cardboard fort. The only thing available is hope, prayer maybe—that it ain’t going to be you they come for this time—anything else is just keeping busy. But people still do it. Reinforcing this, wedging that, working themselves into tiny fortified corners till the whole Village looks deserted.
When in fact, behind the shored-up timber and plastic, thousands of old folks are silently sitting there holding their breaths.

  As usual, Jimmy was out covering up or dismantling his inventions, worried they might make him a target. He called out to me as I passed by.

  “Hey, Big Guy! Wait up!”

  But I just waved and walked on, as if I had to get busy the same as everyone else.

  Truth was, I was feeling sick to the depths of my stomach. Something about meeting Lena, this sense that we were almost friends, had lulled me into thinking that this wouldn’t happen again. I don’t know why. I mean, she’s as detached from the kids as we are now. What difference could it possibly make?

  I took one last look out to sea, at the slow, tumbling avalanche of fog bearing down upon us, then ducked into my lean-to. I didn’t bother to drag the bricks and boards across the doorway. What was the point? If they wanted to get in, they could. Instead I just carried on as normal, fixing myself something to eat, trying to pretend none of this was happening.

  An hour or so later that became impossible. I took a peep out in the hope that maybe things had improved and ended up sticking my face into one of the thickest fogs I’ve ever seen. You could’ve cut it into slabs or carved it into statues. Shortly after, any hopes we had that they might not come were dismissed by the sound of the drums starting up. It was slow and muffled at first, a couple of lazy beats, but soon drum after drum was joining in, pounding a rhythm so loud, so insistent, it shook the entire Island.

  Don’t ask me why, but as I sat there waiting for them to arrive, this image slipped into my mind that I just couldn’t get out: the kids streaming up the hill, hundreds of them, dressed and painted to kill, machetes raised, moonlight in their eyes, but the worst bit was who was leading them.

  She looked the way she did when I first regained consciousness in the tunnels, but wilder, dirtier, as if she hadn’t so much come out of the ground but was made of it. Lipstick was smeared around her mouth as if she’d been eating something you’d rather not know about, and those sightless eyes, no longer vacant, glinted in a way that frightened the hell out of me. Like she was the true keeper of moonlight on the Island, locked away down there, summoned when they wanted the devil to take form.