look weightless. I bob back and forth in the trench until I can bob no more.
It must be late. I am now too light-headed to be much use. Finally, I am unclipped. I make mental notes. The clip with the invisible wire — that’s not going to be too hard to undo. What is worrying me is how the frick-fracking hell am I going to climb out of this trench fast enough? If I can’t do that I will never be able to hold up my sign and the world will never know.
I’m beginning to think this volunteering idea might not have been my brightest. Then to my humongous relief the brown-overall man shows me steps that I hadn’t seen, fixed to the side of the trench. I note where they are and try to work out how long it will take me to climb up them — after I’ve managed to free myself from the invisible wire. All I have to do then is make it to the moon surface as fast as I can take my belt off.
Still I have no plans for the “then what?” Just to get that far would be something to shout home about.
I emerge from the trench to find Mr. Gunnell’s double-gangster waiting.
“You’re lucky,” says the guard. “The last boy died.”
He walks me down a metal spiral staircase which seems to go round and round and on forever. At the bottom there is an endless white corridor, the lights running along the middle in small shades that throw triangles of blinding brightness. On each side are rows of metal doors with thick submarine glass at the top. Still we keep walking. I’m not sure where the lucky comes into this. The guard’s steel-capped boots echo the sound of a marching army. Apart from our footsteps, there is an eerie silence down here. It seems to be deserted. I feel as if I’m being buried alive. The place smells of metal and earth.
And still we keep walking.
I wonder what the guard meant. Am I dead or is there a tomorrow? I don’t ask him. I can see it would give him too much pleasure not to tell me. He stops at a door that looks the same as all the others, unlocks it, then pushes it open. I can see nothing but blackness. Maybe I’m right — I will be left to perish here, and no one will give a damn.
The guard shoves me inside, and the door shuts behind me with the sound of forever in its locks.
I’m trying my best to see when I can’t see a thing. I have no idea how big or small the cell is, just feel its dank darkness. It takes me a while to work out I’m not alone. Someone else is here. The someone else speaks.
“So have they got your parents too?” this someone says. “How loved are you?” I don’t answer. Even broken, I know that voice. “The last boy wasn’t loved that much. You see, they killed him.”
I edge nearer, my hands out before me.
“Stay away from me,” he says. I keep going. “I said stay away!”
I don’t stop until I think I am near him and he’ll be able to hear me whisper.
“Hector,” I say, “it’s Standish.”
I can’t see Hector. I can only hear his voice. He is a huddle, a shadow in the corner. I sit down next to him.
He moves closer.
I know he is hurt.
I know him better than I know my own face.
I know what he is thinking.
He is thinking,
what the frick-fracking hell is Standish doing here?
“What have they done to you?” I ask.
“Nothing too bad,” he says. “I still have eight fingers left.”
“You should have ten.”
“My little finger went to my papa after they shot Mama.”
His voice is weak. I can hardly hear him.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Why?”
“Because they wanted to show Papa they meant business this time. That if he refused to cooperate with the bigwigs again then they would kill me too. But slower.”
He is having trouble breathing.
“What did your papa do?” I ask.
He takes his time. It’s a secret not to be spoken of. Though I know the answer. I will only believe it if Hector tells me.
“He was a government scientist,” he whispers. “Papa dreamed he would send a man to the moon. The president liked that
It must be late. I am now too light-headed to be much use. Finally, I am unclipped. I make mental notes. The clip with the invisible wire — that’s not going to be too hard to undo. What is worrying me is how the frick-fracking hell am I going to climb out of this trench fast enough? If I can’t do that I will never be able to hold up my sign and the world will never know.
I’m beginning to think this volunteering idea might not have been my brightest. Then to my humongous relief the brown-overall man shows me steps that I hadn’t seen, fixed to the side of the trench. I note where they are and try to work out how long it will take me to climb up them — after I’ve managed to free myself from the invisible wire. All I have to do then is make it to the moon surface as fast as I can take my belt off.
Still I have no plans for the “then what?” Just to get that far would be something to shout home about.
I emerge from the trench to find Mr. Gunnell’s double-gangster waiting.
“You’re lucky,” says the guard. “The last boy died.”
He walks me down a metal spiral staircase which seems to go round and round and on forever. At the bottom there is an endless white corridor, the lights running along the middle in small shades that throw triangles of blinding brightness. On each side are rows of metal doors with thick submarine glass at the top. Still we keep walking. I’m not sure where the lucky comes into this. The guard’s steel-capped boots echo the sound of a marching army. Apart from our footsteps, there is an eerie silence down here. It seems to be deserted. I feel as if I’m being buried alive. The place smells of metal and earth.
And still we keep walking.
I wonder what the guard meant. Am I dead or is there a tomorrow? I don’t ask him. I can see it would give him too much pleasure not to tell me. He stops at a door that looks the same as all the others, unlocks it, then pushes it open. I can see nothing but blackness. Maybe I’m right — I will be left to perish here, and no one will give a damn.
The guard shoves me inside, and the door shuts behind me with the sound of forever in its locks.
I’m trying my best to see when I can’t see a thing. I have no idea how big or small the cell is, just feel its dank darkness. It takes me a while to work out I’m not alone. Someone else is here. The someone else speaks.
“So have they got your parents too?” this someone says. “How loved are you?” I don’t answer. Even broken, I know that voice. “The last boy wasn’t loved that much. You see, they killed him.”
I edge nearer, my hands out before me.
“Stay away from me,” he says. I keep going. “I said stay away!”
I don’t stop until I think I am near him and he’ll be able to hear me whisper.
“Hector,” I say, “it’s Standish.”
I can’t see Hector. I can only hear his voice. He is a huddle, a shadow in the corner. I sit down next to him.
He moves closer.
I know he is hurt.
I know him better than I know my own face.
I know what he is thinking.
He is thinking,
what the frick-fracking hell is Standish doing here?
“What have they done to you?” I ask.
“Nothing too bad,” he says. “I still have eight fingers left.”
“You should have ten.”
“My little finger went to my papa after they shot Mama.”
His voice is weak. I can hardly hear him.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Why?”
“Because they wanted to show Papa they meant business this time. That if he refused to cooperate with the bigwigs again then they would kill me too. But slower.”
He is having trouble breathing.
“What did your papa do?” I ask.
He takes his time. It’s a secret not to be spoken of. Though I know the answer. I will only believe it if Hector tells me.
“He was a government scientist,” he whispers. “Papa dreamed he would send a man to the moon. The president liked that
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