"Move into the light and put your hands on your head."
Nothing moves within the darkness for a few seconds. The familiar navy eyes glide into the orange glow of the night flood lights and I study them intently, as I always do. Searching for the slightest hint of something different. He doesn't scare me and I unflinchingly meet his stare as I turn the key in the padlock. The metal grating sensation is almost comforting. With one free hand, I unhook the lock from the bars and swing the cell door open with an equally familiar squeak. We both stand completely still and that feeling of electricity runs up my spine.
He's up to something.
I hold the dark gaze in front of me, his face holds the same pressed lip expression that it always does. We both stand silently in the cold darkness for just a moment, waiting for the next routine step in our nightly ritual.
"Turn around." My voice is its usual commanding tone, the last thing I want to do is let him know I'm suspicious.
Our eyes are completely locked together, and then he starts to slowly turn in the shadowy space. The light shifts across his dark wavy hair as we break eye contact. A brief flicker of distrust flashes through my body. The captive is usually much quicker to obey my instructions. I note my growing suspicion, along with a note to bring the hair shears in the morning.
I carefully watch as the familiar tall form stands with his large interlocked fingers knitted together on the back of his head. His dark unruly hair curling beyond his shoulders. It was hard to believe that he'd been at House of Cole for so long for his then closely cropped hair had grown to that length. My eyes narrow and stay locked on the still figure as I lower the bowl of steaming stew to the wet, concrete floor.
"It smells good today.' His voice is emotionless as he speaks. I almost want to laugh out loud in response. I'd seen this approach too many times and it never worked out well for a captive. He's trying to engage me in casual chat, to distract me, before making his move. My hand is controlled and swift as it releases the bowl and immediately moves to firmly grasp the handle of my knife in it's holster. I slowly straighten my body and walk calmly, backwards out of the cell, effortlessly negotiating the lack of light, uneven floor and reattach the rusty padlock within seconds. I carefully pull the key from the secured lock and steps back from the door. We both know this routine well. The sound of the knife sliding back into its sheath triggers his fingers to slowly pull apart and he twists to meet my stare. His face the familiar stoic picture that fails to conceal his true feelings about his living arrangements. His hands move down to his sides, almost in slow motion.
"Thank you." His voice rumbles in the darkness. A hint of true appreciation, wrapped in sharp bitterness. I meet his voice with a small, blink-and-you'll-miss-it nod, instantly breaking eye contact as I stride back to the main complex. I keep my eyes straight ahead, pretending not to notice his intense stare as I quickly move out of his view.
"Careful with that one, Cassie'. I don't trust him." Weaver's silhouette stands in his usual spot by the captive complex entrance. His weathered hands, ever-gripped on his rifle. As one of the more friendly militia in the captive's quarters, I often welcomed his up-beat chat at feeding time.
"I think he learned his lesson last time." I quickly respond, feeling slightly demeaned by Weaver's concern. The last thing anyone needs in House of Cole is a reputation that you're easy pickings.
"A broken arm is quite the learning curve." He retorts, grinning as he recalls the night the captive in question had attempted to overpower me at feeding time.
The memory of his army boots squelching in the mud as he ran at full speed to the cell flashes through my memory. He'd expected to have to shoot the captive that evening and he would have done so without a second thought. Captives meant nothing to him. He saw them as trading currency and nothing more.
I pictured the moment he approached the open cell door, rifle locked, loaded and expertly aimed. As his eyes adjusted to the darker cell, the shouts and grunts that had triggered his response fell into context. The captives' face was pushed, sideways into the muddy broken concrete, his normally un-telling face twisted into a that of a gothic gargoyle. I was pushing him further into the floor, my left knee expertly placed into his back to cause maximum pain and control. The other pushed my boot into his arm. Pushed precisely into an unnatural position that resulted in the sounds of animal-like pain that were emitting loudly from his mouth. The memory faded and my thoughts moved instantly back to Weaver's face as he spoke about a card game he'd been planning. I didn't want to have to make yet another excuse andcut straight through his speech before he could invite me along.
"Captive 14 is being transferred to the buyer tomorrow morning. Don't move her, I'll be here early to check she's fed and had her final medical." I instructed. I liked captives to be removed from my care in optimum condition and that's why I'd been moved up through the ranks to Lead Handler. Captives were most valuable when clean, fit and healthy.
Weaver nods uncertainly in response to my instruction.
"I mean it. What time is transport scheduled? I enquire, shifting my weight to my left hip.
He moves his left hand from the barrel of his rifle and digs into his pocket, pulling out a folded sheet of dirty paper. His eyes scan the pencil written words as his auburn curls flutter in the September night breeze.
"5.30am."
"Why so early?" My hands automatically folding in front of my chest.
"Buyer is House of Fox." He responds, refolding the captive transfer sheet.
"All the more reason to make sure she has her medical. It's a long journey south and Fox are...pic-ky!"
Both our mouths stretch into friendly grins as I over emphasise the syllables of my last word. "I'll see you at 4.30 then." The smile drains from my face as I speak, returning to its usual serious and focused expression. The reality of what might become of captives after their sale momentarily bears heavy on my soul. The stern face of Captive 31 flashes into my head. What will become of him? The thought fills me with feelings I don't want to feel. It's not my job to worry about their lives after they've left here.
I see the Private's eyes looking expectantly at me.
" Goodnight." My voice is formal and slightly cold as it leaves my lips and I turn before he has opportunity to respond.
"Night, Cass." he replies, his sing-song reply dances on the breeze as I walk back towards the cells for final checks. I can't stop myself as my eyes flick left, to the cell I visited moments ago. The silhouette of Captive 31 sits on the floor of his cell, his head is dipped to his bowl, as steam swirls around the shadow of his beard. His head turns towards me with the sound of my boots and I see the glinting of his deeply toned eyes in the limited light and know that our eyes are yet again locked in their usual tense manner. No one will ever stare me down. My mantra repeats itself in my head as I walk closer to the cell.
My determination is matched in the glance of my dimly lit opponent. His face is always held the same way; lips pressed together as if he's holding in everything that's inside him. Eyes, always slightly squinted. Analysing. Studying. Planning. I mean, who would want to be a captive? Who wouldn't want out of an outdoor cell, with winter approaching ? Who would want to be sold to the highest bidding community house to some unforetold fate. I get that.
The wave of unease travels up through my stomach. Over 200 captives have passed through House of Cole, all under my care. What did I send them to?
" It was you, wasn't it?"
An expressive Irish male voice cuts through my thoughts. Captive 31 is still sat on the floor. His eyes questioning as he awaits an answer. I don't give him one. My head flits through the possible motivations he might have to question me. Manipulation? Distraction? I stop arms length from the bars of the cell, unblinkingly, yet passively focused on the captive. He lowers his head to the bowl again and noisily slurps food from it. He chews and swallows, our eyes still magnetically linked.
"You sang to me..." he whispers.
My face reveals nothing, yet inside a burst of embarrassed panic runs up my legs. How could he remember that? I thought he would die that evening, he was so weak. There's no way he could remember me singing to him...
"A song about knights and dragons..."
He did remember. My mother sang that song to me. I don't know why I sang it to him, he'd only been in my care for a week. He'd been so unwell when he arrived, feverish, semi-conscious. I remember Clements saying they'd found him with a woman, a young boy and a baby, all dead. Maybe I wanted to make him feel less alone, to help him pass. Death had so much more to offer him than living in this world, as a captive.
"I think about you stroking my hair as you sang to me at night. It helps me sleep." His voice is softly spoken and calm.
"Have you finished with your bowl? Pass it through the bars, please?" I bark.
The captive stands and walks to the cell edge. His face completely revealed in the light. Even with the poor food, he looked healthy and strong. He scratches his dark brown beard and gestures his empty bowl forward. " Thank you for what you did, Cassie."
The sound of him using my name takes me by surprise. I feel jittery. Am I frightened? Unfamiliar emotions surge through my limbs, leaving me feeling vulnerable and unsteady. I say nothing. Worried that my face will give away my feelings. He pushes the bowl out between the bars and I take it, steadily, watching for any sign of intention. I turn and walk away, following my usual path for bowl collection, trying not to think about our interaction. Captive 31 is up to something.