Brain Box

By Jim Cunningham

I hear a handle turn and in a dazzling second, a bright yellow rectangle replaces the thin strip under the door. I take my hands from my knees and place them in front of my face. Through my fingers I can see a silhouette framed by the shining rectangle, a female shape, rounded and sensuous. Her arms are bent outwards, elbows angled, hands rest on her generous hips.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jan 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479774401

Book preview

Brain Box

Jim Cunningham

Copyright © 2013 by Jim Cunningham.

ISBN:

Softcover  978-1-4797-7439-5

Ebook      978-1-4797-7440-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

0-800-644-6988

www.Xlibrispublishing.co.uk

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305598

Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV

XXXV

XXXVI

XXXVII

XXXVIII

XXXIX

XL

XLI

XLII

XLIII

XLIV

XLV

XLVI

XLVII

Thanks to Pat for the typing

Mike for the computer skills

Ruth for the proof reading

Willpower Writers for the support

Jackie Karen and Andrew for being there

Fred and Laura for the future

To the memory of Ruth Cunningham(1922-20120),

a good mother and an inspiration to her only son.

I

I am aware only of the darkness which envelops me… and the rain outside. I can hear it drumming a steady, relentless rhythm on the roof. I seem to be in some sort of metal container. There are no windows. As my eyes accustom themselves to the blackness, I can detect a thin strip of yellow light sliding under the bottom edge of what I presume to be the door. If I can get to the door, there may be a handle. It means I may be able to get out. I stay where I am and listen to the rain. I do not want to get out. I want to stay here, sitting on the cold floor, my legs drawn up to my chest, wrapped in my arms. My head rests on my knees. I am at peace. No, I am not. I am troubled. Questions interrupt the tranquillity of my spirit. They force their way through the roadblocks which I have thrown across the highways of my brain, demanding answers, seeking solutions. I have neither. I am a blank canvas in search of palette and brush. I slide aimlessly back and forth, washed by the tide of gloom which takes hold of my soul, cleansing my thoughts, scouring my psyche.

There is another noise, audible above the rain. I can hear footsteps. The sound is growing louder. Someone is approaching the box, someone outside, someone in the light. There is a faint tapping noise coming from the region where I assume the door to be. A voice, a light female voice breaks into the darkness.

‘Are you in there?’

I do not reply. I pull my knees closer to my chest. I want to answer. I have no words. The tapping on the door increases to a loud knocking. The voice increases in volume.

‘Come on. I know you’re in there,’ she says.

Again, I make no sound. The voice yells, ‘Right. If that’s the way you want it.’

I hear a handle turn and in a dazzling second, a bright yellow rectangle replaces the thin strip under the door. I take my hands from my knees and place them in front of my face. Through my fingers I can see a silhouette framed by the shining rectangle, a female shape, rounded and sensuous. Her arms are bent outwards, elbows angled, hands rest on her generous hips.

‘There you are,’ she says warmly. ‘What are you doing in here, in the dark? she asks. There is concern in her voice.

‘Thinking,’ I mutter defensively.

‘About what?’

‘Thinking,’ I repeat.

She pauses. Then she giggles quietly. ‘Thinking about thinking?’ she muses. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

‘Precisely,’ I reply. ‘No sense at all. None of it makes sense. Nothing!’

She pauses.

‘Look,’ she says. ‘You need to come out. They’re waiting.’

‘I don’t want to come out now. I’ll come out later.’

‘No, no,’ she insists. ‘Not later. Now. You must come now. They’re waiting.’

‘I don’t want to see them. I never want to see them… but they keep coming back.’

‘Exactly,’ she says. I detect a note of triumph in her voice. ‘They keep coming back, so you may as well face them sooner as later.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why sooner rather than later? Why not later? Better still, why not never?’

‘It’s not an option. Sooner. Later. They’re options. Never does not come into it. Look. Close your eyes. I’m going to switch the light on.’

I crouch down further, closing my eyes tightly. I become aware of a slight click somewhere over by where I assume the door to be, a warm red light flows into me from somewhere behind my eyes. A few moments later, she speaks again.

‘You’re safe now. You can open your eyes.’

‘I don’t want to,’ I reply stubbornly. I feel like some recalcitrant spoiled child, foot-stamping when unable to fulfil my desire.

Her voice becomes softer, coaxing, hypnotic almost. ‘Come on. There’s nothing to fear. Open your eyes.’

‘I’m not afraid.’ My eyes remain closed.

‘Come on.’ She is closer now. I can sense her closeness. I can almost feel her breath on my right cheek. I open my eyes and blink furiously. There are flashes and stars. Then, suddenly, I find myself staring into her pale blue eyes. She is smiling. Her teeth are white and her smile lifts my mood momentarily. Her lipstick is bright red and contrasts sharply with the perfect teeth.

‘See. It wasn’t so hard, was it?’ She makes me feel guilty, like a four year old who has just shit his pants. ‘Now, come along. They’re waiting.’

I look around me at the bare walls and the stark floor. A single bulb illuminates the scene, suspended from the ceiling like an executioner’s knot. I hate this place, I decide. I should leave with her, go and see them. They are waiting for me.

Slowly, I get to my feet. Where are my shoes?

‘What have you done with my shoes?’ I demand.

‘Don’t worry about them. They’re outside—somewhere. We’ll find them. Come along.’

‘I’m not leaving here without my shoes.’ The stubborn child is back. Her smile slides away. Her eyes narrow. A line appears in her forehead.

‘Forget about the fucking shoes,’ she says. The words are spat out slowly and evenly, punctuated by short silences. I smile inwardly. Fifteen-love, I tell myself.

‘Now,’ she says after a fourth pause. ‘It’ll be all right.’ The controlled calm has returned to her demeanour. The smile is back. I look at her carefully. She is not young. About thirty-four or five, I estimate. She is pretty, but not outstanding. She wears little makeup.

‘You could make more of yourself,’ I say. I am slightly surprised at myself.

‘Pardon?’ She is obviously surprised too. ‘Did I hear you right?’

‘I don’t know. What did you hear?’

‘You made a comment about my appearance.’

‘Did I? I don’t remember.’

She is needled. I can feel it. Thirty-love.

I hear a faint buzz. Two large men appear from somewhere. They block the light temporarily. A feeling of dread replaces my misplaced self-confidence.#

‘I’ve tried my best with you. Honestly I have. But enough is enough. Take him away.’

I feel two pairs of strong hands grip my upper arms and ankles. I am raised into the air and carried out of the door into the corridor outside. I close my eyes and count the seconds. After thirty-three seconds the hands relax their grip and I am deposited on a hard surface. I hear the guards’ heavy tread as they walk away from me.

‘Ah, good. You’ve come to see us at last. We’ve been waiting for you.’

II

‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

The voice is soothing, in marked contrast to the cold starkness of the smoothly polished floor on which I am lying. I close my eyes once more and lie motionless for a few more precious seconds. Why have they been waiting for me? What do they want?

‘What’s wrong with him?’ The voice sounds concerned. ‘Is he all right?’ A voice in my head wonders if I am all right. I say nothing.

‘Check him out,’ the voice says.

I hear light footsteps crossing the floor. I feel gentle fingers touch my neck. I recognise the girl as she replies, ‘He’s fine. He’s just being awkward.’

Another voice, harsher this time and deeper, more masculine: ‘Thank you, Justine. That will be all. Leave us now.’

I hear the girl’s footsteps retreating into the distance. There is a little more silence, then the first voice says, ‘Good girl, that Justine. Don’t like the makeup, though.’

‘I’ll have a word with her,’ the male voice answers. ‘She needs to be told.’

‘She looks like a fucking vampire,’ the soft one intones. The expletive seems out of place, somehow. I try to stop myself giggling. It is useless. The sheer ridiculousness of my situation envelops me. I sit up and open my eyes. I laugh out loud as I take in the surroundings.

I am in a large, well-lit room. It is comfortably furnished with several two- and three-seater settees covered in cream flowered material. These are augmented by a number of occasional tables. The floor is dark, polished wood. Several light sheepskin rugs have been strategically placed to generate the illusion of warmth.

‘Do you like our office?’ the male voice asks.

‘It’s like a badly designed suite centre,’ I reply. I look at the people, then. There are three of them: two male, one female. As I grow accustomed to my surroundings, I realise they are sitting on three sofas, arranged in a semi-circle. I am standing approximately at the centre. I look down at my bare feet on the cold floor. Where are my shoes?

‘Take a seat,’ she woman says. She motions to my right with her right hand. I look down on my right and there is a single wooden chair with a round seat and rounded back. It has been placed on a cream sheepskin. I remain standing, conscious of the cold on my feet.

‘Please, sit,’ the woman requests once more.

I do not move. ‘For fuck’s sake, sit down. Stop wasting our time.’ The man on the right speaks. There is a lot of Scots in the voice. He sounds like Alec Guinness in ‘Tunes of Glory’. I stare straight at him. I try to meet his dark green stare with defiant eyes. We lock glances momentarily. I lose. He is right. I am wasting time—aren’t I?

Wearily, I perch myself on the round seat and stare into the faces of the three. They continue to watch me in silence.

The man on the left, the basso profundo, is best described as a suit. He is a man I have met a thousand times in a hundred places, a man with no discernible features or opinions—part of the machine—a cog or maybe a sprocket. His presence is never noticed but his absence usually spells disaster. As a human, he is nothing. As a cipher he is indispensable. Looking at him, I can sense his loathing of me. I sense his hatred of me though I feel sure he would assure me that it is nothing personal before he put a bullet between my eyes.

The woman on the middle sofa is more of a politico, I feel. Middle-aged, early fifties, late forties perhaps. She is dressed to compete. A dark blue jacket with wide lapels is forced open by large breasts, straining the buttons on her white blouse. The frills around the blouse’s collar are her only concessions to femininity. The trousers are stretched rather tightly over the large thighs and the rounded belly. She is not wearing tights and her shoes are dark blue patent leather with three inch heels. She is watching me carefully as I assess her. She smiles warmly and small lines appear at the corners of her eyes.

Silence continues as I take in the third of the Unholy Trinity, the military man. He sits uncomfortably on his sofa. I postulate that he may be better suited to the Spartan seat that I am occupying. Like the first man, he is faceless, ordinary. He bristles as he looks at me like a terrier viewing a rat. I meet his eyes. They bore into my brain. He makes me uncomfortable, this one. I need to be careful with him and yet, somehow, I sense honour in this man, honour that the other two conspicuously lack. If this man was sorry to kill you, it’d be real sorrow. He’d kill you nevertheless, but it would make him feel bad,