When the light is stolen, darkness can seem absolute. It can be a wall, built close enough to your eyes to block out anything else. In robbing you of sight and light, it accentuates sounds, giving them a clarity they'd never had before.
For Thomas, the closing of the door and the coming of the night was the guillotine blade slicing his head free of his body.
It was inevitable, he supposed. How could he escape the Spotters? It was their job and they were known to be good at it. At least he and Bren, though mostly her, didn't make it easy for them. They'd have been expecting him to be an easy target. A kid with no powers. Not even crazy. Just a boy. What could be difficult about that?
Well, they should ask David's team what they thought.
Thomas was reminded of the death of his attackers. Death was part of life, true. There was barely a day that went by without numerous murders or accidental, but fatal, maiming. None of it bothered him, really. This was different. They'd died trying to get at him. It was his fault and, for that, he was sorry. He knew it was a risk they all took. The Spot was not without its recruitment drives to replace the Spotters that didn't make it. A lunatic in control... no, in possession of powers was a dangerous adversary, no matter how young they were.
Powerless as he was, he'd still caused them to die. He mourned them. He mourned the innocence that died with them.
His eyes were getting used to the low light. He realised there wasn't a complete absence of light in the room, it was just a lot gloomier than the brightly lit corridor outside. The room was windowless and the door fitted its opening flush enough to allow no sharp edge of light to creep in, but a faint glow was coming from the display of an old digital alarm clock. It sat on a two drawered bedside cabinet that, in turn, stood beside a bed.
Thomas, given he was a prisoner, would have assumed there'd be perhaps a sink and a metal framed bed with a thin, so barely serviceable, mattress covered by a single sheet. Why give anything more to someone who was likely to not use it a second night? As such, the bed he was facing was a surprise. It was large, maybe a king size, and had thick pillows and a smart, two-tone bedspread. A white dressing gown, his approximate size lay on it with a pair of plain, equally white slippers on the floor next to it. Looking around, he saw a television with a games console hooked up to it. He couldn't see any connecting wires, and put that down to the need to not leave anything that might allow a suicide in the room.
Could he kill himself? If there were cables, would he fashion a noose and hang it and him from the ornate light fitting?
No. Death was coming, but he wouldn't hurry its arrival. Maybe it would miss its train or get diverted and forget all about him.
Probably not.
There was a note attached to the robe, the black writing easily visible against the white paper.
Change into these. Leave clothes by the door. Console switched on by voice. Controller in top drawer.
He changed quickly, folding his clothes neatly and putting them where he was told to. He could have defied the instructions, but it would prove nothing other than to show he was trying to be braver than he actually was. It wouldn't change the outcome. He opened the top drawer of the bedside cabinet. The controller was there, as promised, and he took it out. He wasn't sure he'd be able to concentrate on playing games, but maybe it was just what he needed. Something to divert his thoughts.
He could see scratches in the wood inside the drawer, but couldn't make them out properly. Though his eyes were more accustomed to the dimness of the room, they weren't quite at the stage he could read what seemed to be more than just random marks. A sweep of the room showed a switch next to the door. He moved to it and turned, rather than pressed, it, hoping it was a dimmer switch. It was and, thankfully, the room was lit by a triple bulbed light fitting.
The bulbs were bright white, giving the room a stark glare that made everything stand out against its background. It was too bright and Thomas tried to turn the level down. He couldn't. There was off and intense. That was all. For now, he'd settle with intense. It meant there were minimal shadows and ensured he couldn't be taken by surprise.
He returned to the drawer to see if he could decipher the scratches. He hoped they were a message. Instructions of how to escape. They weren't. The closer inspection gave no further clues. The scratches were just that - the manic abrasions of a mind lost. He closed the drawer to shut out the threat of insanity that taunted him. There was another below it, so he opened that. A folded up piece of paper lay inside.
Thomas picked it up and scanned the room for cameras. He couldn't see any, but that didn't mean they weren't there. Was this a secret message from the previous occupant, written for whoever might come after? They'd check the room out once a resident had left, wouldn't they? Did that make this a plant instead of a clue? He unfolded it anyway and immediately wished he hadn't.
DIE DIE DIE DIEDIEDIE DIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEIEDIEEEDIII
It wasn't a message. It was a rant. Or a promise. He screwed up the paper and returned it to the drawer, shutting it with an emphatic slam. The gaming console was all that was left and, though at first he'd decided to leave it, he changed his mind. A little escapism would not be amiss.
The message had said the console was switched on by voice. OK. Thomas stepped closer, but didn't say anything initially. What was the voice command?
"Play," he said, his voice sounded ridiculous and tiny to his young ears. When nothing happened, he tried again.
"On."
"Go."
"Turn games on."
These attempts and more failed to work. Both the television and the console stayed switched off.
"Fuck this," Thomas said, throwing the controller onto the bed where it bounced and landed on the floor.
There was a beep and the hiss of static, then the whirr of disc drives and fans firing up. Th TV screen lit up with the logo of the console. Thomas smiled. So, the keyword was 'fuck'. He liked that and knew Bren would appreciate it. He picked the controller back up and pressed a button. He was greeted by a red light flashing and a battery indicator on the screen showing there was no charge remaining.
"Fuck," he said angrily, throwing the controller again. His aversion to curse words was rapidly disappearing.
The screen went off, as did the controller. He sat down on the edge of the bed, heavily.
Great, he thought. Now I really do have to just wait.
Alternating between pacing, sitting and laying, either on the bed or the floor, Thomas spent the next few hours awake and bored. Even his impending death failed to keep his mind occupied. He was regressing to the standard stereotype of a ten year old boy. He just wanted his mum and something to shoot on the screen. Simple pleasures that were being kept from him.
Oh, if he had a power. He'd get out of the room and show them they couldn't just keep kids there like that. At least give them something to do!
At some point, the air began to fizz, with faint bubbles popping in an area just in front of the door. A figure appeared. Thomas expected David, but this was someone he hadn't met.
"Hey there Thomas," the woman said. She was tall enough for her head to almost touch the ceiling. It would have done if she hadn't stooped slightly. She offered him the tray she was holding. "Some grub for you. Eat it all up, you'll need your strength."
Thomas ignored the covered tray. He tried to ignore the sudden grumble in his stomach, though it was clearly audible.
"Come on son. Just take it."
He shook his head.
"We're not going to poison you, don't worry. We wouldn't go to the effort of bringing you here to then just kill you, now would we?"
Who knew the intentions of someone like the Spotters? They lived by their own rules and those rules didn't always intersect with everyone else's.
"You've got ten seconds to take this tray, or lose it forever." The pleasant tone of her voice was gone, to be replaced by a cold sternness.
"What is it?"
"It's food. Good food. So you be a good boy and eat it."
"What if I don't like it?"
"Then you don't like it. Your problem, not mine."
Thomas considered his options. He wanted the meal. He was hungry and would only get more so. Would taking it, however, mean he was giving in? Changing alliances? No. They didn't care about him. The food was a necessity to make sure he put on a good show. He may as well eat it.
He reached out his hand, but the air had already begun to pop.
"Too late," the woman said. "Time's up."
She vanished, taking the food with her.
"FUCK!" Thomas yelled.
The television came on and the console came to life. He picked up the controller and threw it, hard, at the screen. It hit, but bounced away ineffectively, not giving him the satisfaction of a crack or, better still, a smash.
Thomas sat back onthe edge of the bed and started to cry. He didn't notice the air bubblingagain. The woman didn't reappear, but the plate did. A laugh, echoing andhollow, was the woman's version of 'eat this, boy' and the only evidence shewas there at all.