‘Told him to fuck off and it could take weeks or months and that he has a fucking time machine so he can doubly fuck off.’

‘Safa,’ he tuts.

‘What? You asked. And I said I’d punch him in the mouth if he asked me again.’

‘Fair enough,’ Harry says, pulling the corners of his mouth down in agreement. ‘Take it well?’

‘Blah,’ she says. ‘Who cares? How’s the coffee, Ben?’

‘Fine, thank you.’

‘We’ll do skills training today.’

‘Okay.’

‘Seeing as we’re all in pain from yesterday.’

‘Okay. I’m fine now,’ Ben says, tensing his thighs, which no longer hurt.

‘The pain is just masked,’ she says. ‘Grab a pistol from the bag and field strip it for me.’

Repetition of motion. Slow but progressive.

‘Assemble it for me.’

Repetition of motion makes him not think about everything else.

‘Strip it.’

Repetition of motion. Thinking of the movement now and what comes next to place the hands in preparation. He makes mistakes constantly and waits for her to tell him what to do.

‘Assemble the weapon.’

I am warm. I am fed. I am hydrated.

‘Strip it.’

I am dead. I died on the tracks.

‘Assemble.’

Repetition of movement.

‘Field strip the weapon.’

Her voice becomes the only real thing in this place. The gentleness of it, but a tone of command that makes him want to do what she says. She is kind. She is patient. She is solid and unwavering when he loses focus and forgets what he is doing as his mind opens up to the pain in his heart.

‘Ben,’ she says, moving into his eyeline.

‘Okay.’ He starts again. Stripping and putting it back together. Harry strolls over to sit with his back against the bunker and dozes off with his cap pulled down over his eyes.

‘Drink,’ she says in the main room, placing a large cup of water in front of Ben.

‘Eat,’ she says, giving him eggs and fruit.

‘Drink more,’ she says.

‘We’ll go back outside and carry on.’

Outside back to the table. Malcolm comes out with a fresh flask of coffee.

‘Field strip the weapon,’ she says, and so the day wears on and all that matters is her voice.

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Two

Water pours into his mouth and nose. Choking him. Drowning him. His senses shut off. The room is pitch black but the light shining in his eyes is powerful enough to induce intense pain in his retinas.

The soaking-wet cloth over his mouth prevents him breathing in. Tilted at an angle, almost upside down on a hard board. Strong hands gripping his arms and legs.

He cannot speak or say anything. He tries screaming but that just opens his airway. He retches, trying to vomit, but that means another intake of air, which means more water.

The board slams upright and the light shines in his eyes, forced open by rough, black-clad fingers.