couple of loose teeth, he’d been given an
injection to ease the pain, followed by a second the medic never fully
explained. Pronounced reasonably fit, Nick was officially handed over on the
city outskirts and rapidly transferred to a plain van.
Wasn’t it simply marvellous how the world revolved thought
Nick, moving slowly, his arms and legs reacting as though on time delay. Voices
reached him from his left, heading out in a widening arc, low then high. Nick
wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, unable to decide which was hot,
which cold. In the distance a helicopter swept by, the engine feint and hoarse.
Blinking hard he tried to focus, but something strange was going on with his
eyes that seemed to insist he wasn’t in the van, but lying in a forest.
Forcing himself up he started along an ancient logger’s track,
weaving through thickening snow, dipping and bumping along the curving high
banks protecting the track. This far into the forest the sun never came and the
air was frosty and sharp, tempered by pine. On through the underwood he avoided
prone trunks of rotting timber, here and there a full trunk held a crooked
branch up in distress. Listening, he heard the helicopter lose height, bank for
another pass. Keeping low, he swung slowly into a small logger’s camp of three
cabins. Breaking cover he kept close to stacked logs and made for the first
cabin.
Expecting to feel wood on his palm as he extended a hand to the
cabin door, Nick recoiled from the cold metal skin of the van. Crouched in a
corner he panted for breath, feeling really quite seasick as the van made three
quick turns and slowed to a stop. Outside, a dog let off a long train of barks
and a flat practised voice yelled for it to be quiet. His perception totally
muddled, Nick swam between reality and hallucination. Never accept an injection
from a stranger he thought, always say ‘no’.
Two pairs of capable hands half carried and dragged him out of
the van. Trying to stand in a presentable fashion he tumbled to the floor. Like
his life, he thought, things were never what he expected. Lifted and dragged,
Nick was taken down endless corridors, the fixed fluorescent lights hurting his
eyes. Someone gave a brusque order and he was set down in a room and a heavy
door swung closed. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom before
crabbing over to a corner facing the door. It seemed hours until he heard boots
approach in a quickstep as though following his scent. They hadn’t forgotten
about me after all he thought, deciding to do nothing but wait, his body pushed
low. Any time now Nick reasoned, he would be beaten. They dragged him forwards,
then back, yanked him right, then left, and Nick knew this to be his primary
conditioning. This also involved having his hands cuffed painfully behind his
back, while his eyes were roughly covered in a strip of course cloth. Curled
into a protective ball he listened as the boots retreated, concluding the end
of what seasoned interrogators class the ‘happy hour’. As the boots became a
feint echo, Nick forced his mind to follow a different route, to focus on a
direction.
Lost in his own collective world of introspection he missed
their return down the corridor, aware too late of their arrival as a key found
the lock. Swaying as they lifted him to his feet, Nick was guided and pulled up
twenty-four rickety steps into a sterile office prepared in advance for his
arrival. He heard voices low and heavy, one of them a woman, he felt the cold
pinch through his eyes as they uncovered them. Then Nick made one defiant
gesture, a futile headlong rush for the door. Tripped up, sprawled on a rough
bare floor, the woman laughed quietly as they restrained him by his ankles to a
metal chair bolted firmly down.
‘Would you prefer me to speak Russian or English, Nick?’ The
woman asked from behind a desk, her face protected by the halo of light coming
from a desk lamp she aimed directly at him.
‘My
injection to ease the pain, followed by a second the medic never fully
explained. Pronounced reasonably fit, Nick was officially handed over on the
city outskirts and rapidly transferred to a plain van.
Wasn’t it simply marvellous how the world revolved thought
Nick, moving slowly, his arms and legs reacting as though on time delay. Voices
reached him from his left, heading out in a widening arc, low then high. Nick
wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, unable to decide which was hot,
which cold. In the distance a helicopter swept by, the engine feint and hoarse.
Blinking hard he tried to focus, but something strange was going on with his
eyes that seemed to insist he wasn’t in the van, but lying in a forest.
Forcing himself up he started along an ancient logger’s track,
weaving through thickening snow, dipping and bumping along the curving high
banks protecting the track. This far into the forest the sun never came and the
air was frosty and sharp, tempered by pine. On through the underwood he avoided
prone trunks of rotting timber, here and there a full trunk held a crooked
branch up in distress. Listening, he heard the helicopter lose height, bank for
another pass. Keeping low, he swung slowly into a small logger’s camp of three
cabins. Breaking cover he kept close to stacked logs and made for the first
cabin.
Expecting to feel wood on his palm as he extended a hand to the
cabin door, Nick recoiled from the cold metal skin of the van. Crouched in a
corner he panted for breath, feeling really quite seasick as the van made three
quick turns and slowed to a stop. Outside, a dog let off a long train of barks
and a flat practised voice yelled for it to be quiet. His perception totally
muddled, Nick swam between reality and hallucination. Never accept an injection
from a stranger he thought, always say ‘no’.
Two pairs of capable hands half carried and dragged him out of
the van. Trying to stand in a presentable fashion he tumbled to the floor. Like
his life, he thought, things were never what he expected. Lifted and dragged,
Nick was taken down endless corridors, the fixed fluorescent lights hurting his
eyes. Someone gave a brusque order and he was set down in a room and a heavy
door swung closed. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom before
crabbing over to a corner facing the door. It seemed hours until he heard boots
approach in a quickstep as though following his scent. They hadn’t forgotten
about me after all he thought, deciding to do nothing but wait, his body pushed
low. Any time now Nick reasoned, he would be beaten. They dragged him forwards,
then back, yanked him right, then left, and Nick knew this to be his primary
conditioning. This also involved having his hands cuffed painfully behind his
back, while his eyes were roughly covered in a strip of course cloth. Curled
into a protective ball he listened as the boots retreated, concluding the end
of what seasoned interrogators class the ‘happy hour’. As the boots became a
feint echo, Nick forced his mind to follow a different route, to focus on a
direction.
Lost in his own collective world of introspection he missed
their return down the corridor, aware too late of their arrival as a key found
the lock. Swaying as they lifted him to his feet, Nick was guided and pulled up
twenty-four rickety steps into a sterile office prepared in advance for his
arrival. He heard voices low and heavy, one of them a woman, he felt the cold
pinch through his eyes as they uncovered them. Then Nick made one defiant
gesture, a futile headlong rush for the door. Tripped up, sprawled on a rough
bare floor, the woman laughed quietly as they restrained him by his ankles to a
metal chair bolted firmly down.
‘Would you prefer me to speak Russian or English, Nick?’ The
woman asked from behind a desk, her face protected by the halo of light coming
from a desk lamp she aimed directly at him.
‘My
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