Maps of Hell

Four

I woke up in my cell. The light was on and a ragged blanket had been thrown over my naked body. My head was aching and I felt nauseous. When a tray of bread and cheese was pushed through the hatch, I was able only to gulp down the water. Not long after that, I was violently sick, though what came up was nothing but liquid. I sat on the uneven bed with my legs drawn up, seeing the scarring on my knee at close range. It reminded me of something, but I couldn’t remember what. My memory was very limited again. To my surprise, I found my heart beat fast. I was excited, alert, but I couldn’t fathom why. Then I remembered the masked figures and the upturned cross. What the hell was going on?

The loud music came on and I sat motionless, letting it crash into me, all thoughts driven from my mind. I was seeing red, literally-it was as if I were immersed in a sea of blood. I felt sick again, but was only able to retch up a few mouthfuls of evil-tasting fluid. The room was suddenly very hot and I threw the blanket to the floor. It lay there like a tattered mat. I stared at it with mounting fascination, trying to understand why it was suddenly exercising such power over me.

At the same time, I was working on summoning up images, words, anything from my memory. Nothing appeared. I had the feeling that I had found some way of building up my identity, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. All I could think of, in an attempt to stave off the blood that seemed to be flooding over me, was the blanket on the floor. What did it mean? A thin, scratchy covering that either kept me too hot or too cold, that was often damp from the flow of water that came through the door. The blanket lying on the floor. Like a rug. Or a mat.

A flash of clear white light drove the redness away. Mat. Why was the word so significant. Because the bastards in gray were trampling me as if I were a mat? No, there was more to the word than that. Mat. The blanket would act like a bath mat if I left it on the floor for the next spray of freezing water. No. What was the significance of mat?

My heart missed a beat and I leaped to my feet. Mat. It was my name. Matt, with two ts. I slapped the wall for joy and tried to dance a jig. My legs gave way and I dropped onto the blanket. My name was Matt. They hadn’t taken away my identity after all-I had managed to keep something of myself from them.

I kneeled there with a slack smile on my lips. I was Matt. I was still what I had been before I arrived at this awful place.

Then I slumped forwards as the realization hit me-I might have known one of my names, but I had no idea of the others. Just as I had no idea of where I was or why I was here. And the next time I was put under the sinister box, I might lose the little that I had managed to salvage.

Time was running out for Matt, whoever the hell he was.

I didn’t know how many more sessions under the machine I endured. Sometimes I could remember that my name was Matt, sometimes not. There were other occasions, the worst ones, when I doubted that I was called Matt at all, and that I was only hallucinating.

Then everything changed. I was dragged to the treatment room by the silent men in leather aprons. I remembered how asphyxiating it felt when the long box was lowered over me-and then, more quickly than usual, everything turned to black.

When I came round, I found that I was lying on a comfortable bed, one that seemed to be at the correct angle to the rest of a large room. I was hooked up to numerous machines. I felt as if I were floating, but my mind was sluggish, like it had been chained down. I tried to work out who I was, but failed. I was forced to lie back and look around.

To my left, beyond a desk equipped with an angled lamp and a computer screen, there was a window. The shackles on my mind immediately loosened at the sight of the trees in the middle distance, a great green carpet of them rising up a slope. This room was obviously above ground level. I tried to get up, but found that my arms and legs were secured. That darkened my mood. I had the feeling that I’d been in captivity before, though nothing specific flashed before me. My memory was sluggish.

A young woman wearing a white uniform came towards me, a warm smile on her lips. “Good morning,” she said. “You’ve been asleep for a long time.” She took a cell phone from her belt and pressed buttons. She spoke in a low voice and then turned her attention back to me. “How are you feeling?”

I shrugged. “Like my head’s been filled with cotton wool. What happened?”

She gave me another smile and started checking the monitors. “The doctor will be here soon.”

I let the evasive answer go. I could see I wasn’t going to get anything else out of the nurse. A man with a goatee came in. He was wearing a white coat over a gray uniform. I was sure I’d seen both him and his clothing before but, again, I couldn’t come up with any specifics.

The doctor gave me a tight smile and took my pulse. He then looked at the clipboard on which the nurse had been recording readings from the machines. He gave her a curt nod.

“You are doing well,” he said, looking at me but avoiding my eyes.

“Am I?” I said. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me my name.”

His expression went blank.

“Or what you’ve been doing to me here?”

He remained silent.

“Or even where here is?”

The two of them moved away. I decided to feign sleep in the hope that would make them drop their guard. That turned out to be a total failure. Not only did they keep their distance, but I fell into a profound slumber.

For some reason, the image of a bath mat filled my mind before I lost consciousness.

I woke up and looked around surreptitiously. The nurse was at her desk, head bowed. I closed my eyes again and tried to drive away the lethargy that seemed to have infected my thought processes. Then I remembered the bath mat I’d seen before I fell asleep. It seemed to mean something important, something more than “remember to put this down before you have a bath or you might slip when you get out.” But I couldn’t reach that layer of significance.

The machines around me were beeping and humming in random sequences. I found myself tapping my finger and thumb together and becoming aware of a rhythm. I kept my eyes shut as I discerned a melody. Music, it meant something, it was important to me. Suddenly, a string of words came to mind. I repeated them under my breath.

“Dylan, Young, Springsteen. Dylan, Young, Springsteen…”

The mantra gave me a warm feeling-it seemed to bring me closer to myself.

Then the words were changed by some opaque part of my brain.

“Pop, Hell, Rotten, Strummer. Pop, Hell, Rotten, Strummer…”

I didn’t know what the words referred to, but I knew the person that I once was, the character that I’d lost, had paid attention to them. I was in the dark about my past, but there were still a few beacons lighting the way back.

At some point, the nurse roused me with a tray with the kind of food I hadn’t seen for what seemed like months-fresh bread, bacon, eggs, fruit, orange juice, coffee. I ate and drank ravenously. It was hard to fend off real sleep after that, but I repeated my mantra again to stay surreptitiously awake.

Eventually-I had no idea how much time had passed-my patience was rewarded. I heard two pairs of footsteps approaching. The doctor and nurse were being very careful, keeping their voices low, but I heard one of the man’s sentences clearly enough.

“Advise control center that L24 will be ready for coffining and psych-process closure tomorrow.”

I took it that I was L24. The designation meant nothing to me and I had the distinct feeling I’d never heard it before. L24? It sounded like I was a machine rather than a human being. Screw that.

Then I started wondering about the other things the doctor had mentioned-control center, coffining, psych-process closure. All three of the terms were alarming. What was the center controlling? And what was the psych-process that sounded like it was almost completed? Worst, what was coffining? Surely they weren’t going to kill me. I tried to convince myself that if the people who were holding me had wanted that, they could have done it easily when I’d been comatose. But I wasn’t going to take the chance. No way was I undergoing coffining.

I didn’t have many options, so I quickly settled on a plan of action. I opened my eyes wide and started jerking my bound limbs as if I was having a seizure. I gasped for breath and thrashed my head around to add to the effect. All of that got the nurse’s attention and she ran over to my bed.

I couldn’t tell what the monitors were showing her, so I let out some screams, too. I didn’t make them too loud in case that attracted other staff. But the nurse was either cautious by nature or the place was run with iron discipline. I caught a glimpse of her stabbing buttons on her cell phone. To my relief, she seemed unable to get through. She left a message, saying that L24 was convulsing and that the person she was trying to contact, presumably the doctor, should come immediately. I made even more of an effort with my act, thrusting my midriff into the air.

The nurse seemed to get the subliminal message. I felt her fingers on my wrists, then they were freed. Would she do the same with my legs? I sneaked a look and saw her trying to call the doctor again. I had to make my move. I sat up and grabbed her by the left arm, slapping the phone from her other hand.

“Untie my ankles,” I ordered, leaning forward and transferring my grip to her waist. She gasped as I dug my fingers into her flesh. There was a pause as she struggled with the strap, then I was free. I took hold of her arms again.

“Where are we?” I demanded. “What have you been doing to me?”

The young woman’s eyes bulged as I squeezed her forearms hard.

“What’s my name?”

She shook her head, her lips pursed. She was obviously trying to follow a procedure that she’d learned, but her wide eyes showed how scared she was.

“Tell me,” I hissed, “or I’ll break your arms.”

“Please,” she begged, “I can’t. They’ll…they’ll kill me.”

I could tell she wasn’t going to talk. Without thinking about it, I swung my left arm. My fist connected with her lower jaw and she dropped like a stone. I got up and checked that she was breathing, then tied her to the bed and stamped on her cell phone. I knew the doctor might arrive any second, so I went to a cupboard against the wall. I found a gray uniform jacket and trousers, plus a pair of highly polished black army boots. The shoulders of the jacket bore red badges with the letters NANR in black. I pulled everything on as quickly as I could and headed for the door. On the way, I caught sight of the computer screen on the desk. I wondered if my details were visible and veered that way, but before I got there I heard footsteps outside. I ran to the door, the muscles in my legs tightening, and got there just before the doctor rushed in. I brought the edge of my hand down on the back of his neck and he joined the nurse on the floor. I considered going back to check the screen but decided it was more important to get moving.

I went out, surprised by my apparently instinctive fighting skills. I found myself at the end of a long corridor. Before I got more than five yards, I heard voices behind a closed door and ducked into an alcove. That was the right move. Two men in gray uniforms like the one I was wearing came into the passage and walked past the spot I’d been a few seconds earlier. They were wearing berets adorned with the NANR badge, making me wonder what the letters might mean.

I was about to go out into the corridor when I heard raised voices and a rush of feet moving towards the room where I’d been confined. Shit. Presumably someone was wondering why the doctor and nurse weren’t responding. I decided to make use of the staircase at the end of the alcove. It only went one way-down.

At the bottom, a short corridor led to an open door. I inched towards it and edged my head round the frame. Two men, again in gray uniforms, were sitting at an electronic control board, their eyes fixed on the scene that was being played out in the studio beyond. The men were separated from the action by a clear glass window. I followed the direction of their gaze, and froze. A man and a woman, both naked, were being filmed. What really made my heart pound was that the man had been tied to a wooden post, facing outwards. I had a flash of having been in a similar position and heard the crash of rifles. I remembered-the bastards had pretended to execute me by firing squad.

That wasn’t what was happening to this man. He was being savagely whipped, his face and chest already crisscrossed by bloody stripes. The woman turned towards the cameras, her lips set in a tight smile. She held the position and I realized she was waiting for something. Then one of the uniformed guys leaned forward to a microphone and said words which boomed out through speakers.

“All right, that’s enough. Kill him.”

I could hardly believe what I’d heard, but the order was no joke. The woman in the studio had picked up a long knife with a wickedly curved blade.

It was time I made my entrance.