Spares by Michael Marshall Smith

to have to organize relief cover, and few of the caretakers have much to go out for. I was no exception. I had no reason to go out at all.
    The inside of the main building was arranged around two corridors at right angles to each other. The outside door led pretty much straight into the control room where I spent most of my time. At the bottom corner of this room was a door that led to the main corridor. As you walked down that passage you passed three large metal doors, each with a small Perspex window. These led to the tunnels and were supposed to be opened only at feeding times and when a collection was made. A little farther down was the second corridor which led to the operating room. There were a few farther rooms off the opposite side, a kitchen and various utility areas. The walls and ceilings throughout the complex were painted an entertaining shade of drab gray, and it was always quiet, like a mortuary, because everyone except the caretaker lived in the tunnels.
    I was told my duties, and shown how to operate the few pieces of equipment that were my responsibility. It was explained to me when the shipments of food would arrive, and how little I had to do to them. I was given the phone numbers of relevant people in Roanoke General, and told the circumstances in which I was to call them. I stood, and nodded, and listened, though I wasn’t really there at all. Hooks embedded in my mind pulled in three different directions at once, leaving me with a jittery blankness that occluded the outside world.
    Then I was shown to the tunnels.
    I won’t forget the feeling I had when I first stood at the observation window and peered into the twilight beyond. At first all I could make out was a color, a deepblue glow chilled at intervals by white lights shining up from the floor. It looked like the coldest dream you ever had. Then I began to discern shapes in the gloom, and movement. When I realized what I was seeing I shivered, a spasm so elemental that it wasn’t visible on the outside. For a moment it was as if I was back in a different place altogether, and it was all I could do not to run. I should have trusted that intuition, and made the connection, but of course I didn’t.
    The representative from the company stood behind me as I watched, and told me that each of the three tunnels was eight feet wide and eight feet tall, and housed forty spares. Experience had shown that it was best to keep them warm and humid, and he tapped the indicator panels at the side of each door. These I had to check every two hours, even though they were computer controlled. The instruction was repeated, and I turned to glare at the representative to show I understood. Our eyes met for the first time since he’d arrived, and I could tell what he felt about me. Distaste, primarily, together with boredom and a little amusement. To him I was merely a new component of the Farm, a replacement part, ranking in importance well below the electrified fence.
    I hoped he couldn’t read what I was feeling for him, because as I turned back to look once more through the window I felt my hands tightening in the pockets of my battered coat, and heard the sound of blood singing in my ears. Perhaps it was from that moment, from within a minute of seeing the spares for the first time, that I knew I would not be quite the caretaker they were expecting.
    Or maybe not. At the time I didn’t really know what I felt about anything. I couldn’t do joined-up thinking for long enough to finish a paragraph I could understand. It’s always easy to look back and assume a purpose in one’s actions. At the time I suspect I had about as much purpose as a streak of shit along a wall.
    The man left eventually, once the opportunities forpatronizing me had been thoroughly exhausted. As he got into his company car he looked at me over his elegant spectacles, and snorted quietly to himself. I realized that I’d probably only said about ten words in the entire time we’d been