Quantum Poppers (4 page)

He and Emma had
been sat in the cramped booth at Stayx. Their portion of onion loaf looked like
some dirty coral reef sitting between them and the sound of screaming kids
filled the air.

'How’s the love
life?' Emma had asked.

'Consistent,'
Tony replied.

'That bad.
Don’t worry, someone will come along soon.'

'Ah, thanks.'

'I don’t mean
to sound patronising, but a nice girl can do a lot worse than you.'

'Keep talking.'

'We’ve had this
conversation before. You know I how I feel.'

They both
reached for the loaf, which crumbled at the pressure of being torn apart, and
both pulled back plain onion, the batter remained stuck to the surface as if it
were a growth on the plate rather than part of the meal.

'I’ve met
someone,' said Emma. 'A guy from the pub. He liked me, I kind of liked him,
we’re going to see what happens.'

'Kind of liked?
Sounds like a strong foundation on which to begin a relationship.'

'It's not
always the foundations that needs to be strong. Houses can be built on soggy
clay with plenty of luck and the right kind of mud.'

'A beautiful
sentiment. Are you supplying the right kind of mud?'

'I think we
should stop with the house building as relationship metaphor.'

'Done,' said Tony. He broke off a
piece of empty batter and washed it down with a mouthful of coke. Around them
the noise seemed to intensify. Waiters balancing impossibly high stacks of
trays, some as large as tractor wheels, dodged in and out of the cramped tables
as well as the kids headed towards the play area. Come to think of it, the play
area hadn’t been there the last time Tony and Emma had visited, this had surely
increased the numbers of families to what once had been a 'homely and warm part
of Texas, UK style', or so the sign above the bar informed them. Tony could see
the pool of multicoloured balls behind Emma explode sporadically as kids (the
boys) cannon balled into them whilst others (the girls) ran out screaming,
holding arms aloft, their faces contorted in order to squeeze out the most
tears.
They were the lucky ones,
thought Tony.
It's the ones that
come out with silent looks of horror on their face who would be the ones in
trouble.

Looking back on
it now, Tony could recall the family sitting next to the two of them -
thankfully one of the smaller groups in the restaurant, certainly the quietest.
Mother, Father, 2.4 children, they were anchored in his memory, an item on
which to hold base his recollections of what followed. Playing it over in his
mind he could see them leave, the kid had miraculously dodged one of the tray
carrying waiters, had his shoes rammed home by his mum, and then all leave as
normal. Which is of course what it was. It wasn’t until later that Tony
recalled how much of this he had subconsciously registered. He now needed to
remember, and prayed that any detail – the shoe being hammered home; the mum
dropping her umbrella; the yank of the pram’s plastic rain cover – meant
something, or held some secret.

‘You think
they’d let me in there?’ said Tony. He remembered asking this clearly enough.

‘The play area?
I think you’re a bit too big.’

‘Physically
perhaps. My mental age would love to cannon ball that pool.’

‘I’m sure your
mental age wants to do many things it can’t.’

‘My mental age
is kept active by a rigorous régime of video games and cartoons, cannon balling
that pit would we blessed relief.’

‘Not for the
poor kids who’d get ejected along with half the balls when you make contact.’

‘They’ll love
it, besides, that net will catch them.’

Tony took a
large gulp from his drink and sloshed it round his mouth to clear out the
debris of onion and batter now clinging to his teeth. At least when going out
for the evening with Emma he didn’t need to worry about onion breath, but
still, it was basic hygiene to wash the dregs away.

The kid ran out
with a look of sheer pain. His eyes were wide and his mouth agape as if wanting
to scream at the top of his lungs. He must really have been in agony as he
approached the table next to them. Tony continued to drink and was reaching for
another handful of the onion loaf when he saw the tray-balancing waiter
crossing the room. It was almost happening in slow motion. Above the heads of
adults and kids chowing down on hot wings, cokes and steaks, Tony could see the
tray sailing along as if a-float on the patrons' heads. He could see, a second
before connection, that the boy and the waiter were going to meet at the same
point. He wanted to call out, do something (and part of him wanted to see the
crash, the shameless part of him that his mental age controlled), but was
unable. He froze, he could do nothing. Emma had glanced in the opposite
direction, probably checking out the barman who looked uncannily like that
actor Tony couldn’t remember the name of, and so didn’t note Tony's drawn-out
pause. The waiter hit the cross section, the kid hit the cross section, and the
kid ran straight through him. It was always the way. Just when Tony had kidded
himself it was all a part of his imagination, that as long as it didn’t happen
again he could fob it off as a trick of the light – it happened again. He now
realised that the kid probably was screaming, it’s just no one could hear – and
only Tony could see.

Tony tried
acting casual as Emma turned back to take her own fill of the onion loaf. She
had asked something about an upcoming job interview to which he had given a
non-committal grunt without taking his eyes off of the kid. The kid was
pleading with parents who weren’t there. He was silently screaming, pulling at
what was probably an arm Tony couldn’t see and shaking a chair without a
resident. At least to Tony. Tony was convinced that the kid was seeing
something and unlike many of these repeat shadows was well aware that something
was pretty far from ok.

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.

‘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?’