The Bunker Diary (4 page)

But I didn’t have any more.

Later, after Jenny had cried herself dry,
she said she was hungry. She didn’t moan about it or anything. She just said,
‘I’m hungry.’

‘Me too,’ I told her.

‘I bet you’re not as hungry as
me.’

She was probably right. I don’t
actually feel that hungry any more. I know I am, though. A couple of times today I felt
really tired, like I didn’t have any energy left, and I’m sure it’s
because I haven’t eaten anything for a long time. I’m not too worried about
it yet. I’ve been hungry before. I know what it’s like. You can go a long
time without food.

Shit. Thinking about it has made me feel hungry
again.

Anyway, it’s a relief to know that
Jenny’s hungry. I mean, that’s a good sign, isn’t it? Like when
you’re ill and you don’t have any appetite, and then you start getting
better and you begin to feel hungry again.

That’s good, isn’t it?

I don’t know.

What do I know? I’m just a kid.
I’m sixteen years old. I don’t know anything about looking after people. No
one’s ever looked after me, and I’ve only ever looked after myself.

But still, my gut feeling tells me that
Jenny’s feeling a bit better. It’s not
good
that she’s
hungry, obviously. But I’d be a lot more worried if she wasn’t.

Earlier on this evening, when I was putting
the wheelchair back in the lift, Jenny asked me what the perspex thing on the wall was
for. She called it a tray.

‘What’s that tray for,
Linus?’

‘I don’t know.’

She studied it for a while, then turned her
attention to the one on the corridor wall. She looked thoughtful. Clear brown eyes, a
curious little mouth.

‘Why don’t we ask him for some
food?’ she said. ‘Send him a note.’

‘He knows we’re hungry,’ I
said.

She reached up and took a sheet of paper
from the leaflet-holder. ‘Maybe he wants us to ask. Some people are like that.
They won’t give you anything unless you ask.’

I looked at her. She reached up and picked
the pen off the
wall, then crouched down, put the sheet of paper on the
floor and got ready to write.

‘What shall I ask for?’ she
said.

I couldn’t help smiling. ‘Ask
him to let us go.’

She wrote:
Please let us go
.

‘What else?’ she said.

‘Ask him what he wants.’

She wrote:
What do you want.

‘Don’t forget the question
mark.’

She added the question mark, then wrote:
Please give us some food. Bread. Cheese. Apples. Crisps. Choclate. Milk. And
some tea.

‘You like tea?’ I asked her.

‘Uh-huh.’

She wrote:
Soap. Towls. Toothbrushs and
toothpaste.

I said, ‘You’re a good
writer.’

She gave me a look. ‘I’m not a
baby
.’

‘Sorry.’

She nodded. ‘Anything else?’

‘I think that should do it.’

She wrote:
Thank you
. Then she
stood up and placed the sheet of paper in the leaflet-holder in the lift and clipped the
pen back on the wall.

‘Do you think it’ll work?’
I asked her.

She shrugged, looking pleased with
herself.

I said, ‘It doesn’t really
matter if it doesn’t work, does it?’

‘No.’

‘We won’t be any worse off than
we are now.’

‘Right.’

I smiled. ‘I suppose you think
you’re pretty smart?’

‘Smarter than you.’

It’s nearly midnight now. I’ve
warned Jenny about the lights.

‘They go off at twelve,’ I told
her. ‘It gets very dark. But don’t worry, they’ll come on again in the
morning.’

‘I’m not afraid of the
dark,’ she said. ‘I like it.’

She’s sleeping in the bed in my room.
I’m going to sleep on the floor. I got some blankets and pillows from the other
beds and I’ve made myself a cosy little nest by the door. It reminds me a bit of
the street. Blankets, cardboard, doorways.

Home from home.

I’m glad Jenny’s not afraid of
the dark.

I wish I wasn’t.

It’s funny how things turn out. Five
months ago I ran away to London to escape from the shittiness of school and the
emotional madness of being at home. It wasn’t easy, and I’m still not sure
it was the right thing to do, but I did it. I fought and struggled to find what I was
looking for, and although I never found it, I finally got used to the freedom of the
streets and was beginning to get myself sorted out. And now here I am, stuck in the
shittiest place in the world with my emotions being ripped to shreds.

Funny?

It’s absolutely hilarious.

Maybe it’s my ka
ra
ma, as
Lugless would say. ‘Tis your furkin’ ka
ra
ma, Linus boy. Yep yep.
Indeedy-doo.’ Lugless. Good old Lug. The one-eared fool. I wonder what he’s
doing right now. Shuffling along the subway in his dirty old coat, probably. Muttering
home-made mantras to himself and guzzling tap water from a cider bottle. Lugless always
drinks water from a cider bottle, gallons of the stuff. I asked him once why he did
it.

‘Say what?’ he said.

‘Why do you drink water from a cider
bottle? You know it winds up the winos.’

‘Wind ’em up. Yep.
Yep.’

‘Is that why you do it?’

‘Do what? Furkin’
diddee.’

‘Never mind.’

‘Say what?’

Incoherent happiness.

Freedom.

Karma.

I’ll have to think about that.

Jenny was already awake when the lights
came on this morning. I dragged my head out from under the sheet, looked across the
room, and there she was, sitting up in bed staring at me.

‘You were dreaming,’ she
said.

‘Was I?’

‘Our dog dreams. His legs twitch and
he whines.’

‘Is that what I was doing?’

‘I think you were crying.’

Great.

‘What’s he called?’ I
said. ‘Your dog.’

‘Woody.’

‘Good name.’

‘It’s short for
Woodbine.’

She was fully dressed and still wearing my
hooded jacket. The hood was up, almost covering her face. She looked like a miniature
monk.

‘Can I have a bath?’ she
asked.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘There’s no hot
water.’

‘I don’t mind. I’ll have a
cold bath.’

I haven’t told her about the cameras and
the microphones yet. I don’t want to frighten her. I’m frightened enough for
both of us. And the thought of him sitting up there watching her in the bathroom,
stealing her privacy … God, it makes me feel so sick.

‘Let me check first,’ I said to
her, getting up. ‘I’ll see if there’s any water. You stay here. I
won’t be a minute.’

I went into the kitchen and turned on the
cooker. While the ring was heating up, I ripped a patch of lining from my padded shirt
and then fished the broken plastic fork from my pocket. When the ring was glowing red, I
held the fork to the element, got it melting, then smeared dabs of molten plastic on the
corners of the cloth square. Before they had a chance to cool down, I ran along the
corridor, grabbed a chair from one of the rooms, then went into the bathroom. I
positioned the chair under the grille, stood on it, then reached up and started to stick
the cloth over the camera. The molten plastic was nearly dry now, and it didn’t
seem to be sticking too well to the cloth, but I reckoned if I pressed hard enough it
might just work.

I never got the chance.

Just as I was moving the cloth into position
the lights went out, plunging the bathroom into darkness, and a moment later something
hot and pungent squirted out from the grille and set fire to my eyes. I don’t know
what it was. Gas, liquid … like an aerosol spray. Hot and hissy. It stung like
hell. I screamed, dropped the cloth, put my hands to my eyes and fell off the chair.

I must have hit my head on something, the
bath or the sink. I can’t remember.

I blacked out for a while.

When I came round the lights were on again and
Jenny was leaning over me, dabbing at my eyes with the dampened sleeve of my jacket.

‘What happened?’ she said.
‘Are you all right? Your eyes look funny.’

‘Funny?’

‘They’re all red and
puffy.’

I reached up and felt my head. There was an
egg-sized lump just behind my ear. When I touched it, a red-hot knife speared through my
skull.

‘Does it hurt?’ Jenny asked.

‘Just a bit.’

After that I had to tell her about the
microphones and cameras. I didn’t want to, and I didn’t like doing it, but I
couldn’t see what else to do. What else
could
I do? I probably could have
stopped her having a bath for a while, I probably could have thought up some excuse, but
she’d still be washing, using the lavatory, thinking she was alone when she
wasn’t. I can’t watch her
all
the time. I mean, I’ll work out
something to put the cameras out of action, I’m not letting the bastard get away
with it. But it’s going to take time. And meanwhile we’ve got our bodily
functions to consider.

I don’t know what to do.

This place is driving me crazy.

When I told Jenny about the cameras she
didn’t say anything for a while, she just looked up at the grille, then back at
me, then up at the grille again.

‘He’s watching us from up
there?’

‘I think so.’

‘All the time?’

I nodded. ‘Probably.’

‘What about … ?’ Her
voice was close to tears. ‘What about in here? When I’m … you
know?’

‘It won’t be for long,’ I
said gently. ‘I’ll think of something, I promise.’

She was quiet for a long time. Staring at
the floor, fiddling with the sleeve of my jacket, silent tears rolling down her cheeks.
Eventually she looked up at me and said, ‘He’s a bad man, isn’t
he?’

‘Yeah, he’s bad.’

She nodded slowly and looked up at the
ceiling. ‘You’re a bad man, Mister. A very bad man.’

12.30 p.m.

Well, what do you know? Jenny’s idea
worked. The food idea, the note. It actually worked. When the lift came down at nine
o’clock, there was a carrier bag on the floor, and when we opened it up we found
almost everything we’d asked him for: a loaf of sliced white bread, a packet of
cheese, two apples, two Mars bars, two packets of crisps, a bottle of milk, a packet of
tea bags, a bar of soap, two towels, two toothbrushes, and a tube of toothpaste.

‘He didn’t answer your
question,’ Jenny said. ‘He didn’t tell us what he wants.’

‘Who cares?’ I said, smiling at
her. ‘Let’s eat.’

We lugged the stuff out of the lift, put the
towels and things in the bathroom, then got stuck into the food. Cheese sandwiches and
crisps and Mars bars. I’ve never tasted anything so good in my life.

‘Don’t you want your
apple?’ Jenny asked.

‘I’m allergic to fruit,’ I
told her. ‘You can have it.’

‘Thanks.’ She took a huge bite
and started chewing. ‘What happens if you eat fruit. Do you get a rash or
something?’

‘My head swells up.’

She raised her eyebrows.

‘Honestly,’ I said. ‘My
head swells up, my eyes start bulging, and the skin starts peeling off my
face.’

She grinned. ‘You’re making it
up.’

I reached for the apple. ‘Give me that
and I’ll show you.’

She laughed and snatched it away. ‘No!
I don’t want to see you with a swelled-up head.’

I puffed my cheeks and pulled a face.

She burped.

I laughed.

Just for now, things are all right.

We don’t have a kettle or saucepans,
and we don’t have a hot tap, so we’re having to make tea with cold water.
It’s not brilliant, but it’s better than nothing.

We’ve just finished writing another
note.

Kettle.

Saucepans.

Torch/candles.

Bread.

Butter.

Cheese.

Ham.

Milk.

Orange juice.

Cornflakes.

Bananas.

Chocolate.

Soup.

Crisps.

Chicken.

Fish fingers.

Carrots.

Beans.

Spaghetti Hoops.

Radio.

Television.

Mobile phone.

I added the last three items just for the
hell of it.

Jenny insisted on writing
Thank you
at the bottom of the note.

When she wasn’t looking, I added my
own postscript:
Whatever it takes, Mister, whatever it takes
.

Later.

Today seems to have passed really quickly.
The hours have just floated by. I suppose it’s being with Jenny that does it.
I’m used to being on my own, and I like it. I like being alone. I’m happy
with myself. I’ve always thought that if I got marooned on a desert island or
stuck in solitary confinement or something, I’d be OK. I’d manage. I could
cope on my own. And I did, didn’t I? I spent a while down here on my own. I
didn’t like it, but that wasn’t because I was alone. Alone had nothing to
do with it. I didn’t like it because there’s nothing to
like down here, simple as that. So, yeah, I can cope on my own. But I have to admit
it’s pretty good to have someone else around. Someone to talk to, someone to react
with. It makes me feel better.