It was the smell that got me first: old men’s trousers. There was mould somewhere. Cold, not freezing, not ice on the windows, but a chill where the room never gets warm.
Two huge men; in jeans from Primark, coats from TJ Hughes, trying to look ordinary, only not getting it right.
‘Okay,’ one with an ear stud and a boxer’s nose, said. ‘Okay,’ he said again. I wasn’t sure if this was a question, ‘Am I okay?’ or a statement, ‘You’re okay now.’
I didn’t respond. My heart hadn’t stopped racing in two days. What was I doing here? How did this happen?
They took me to a room, like travelling back to the 1970s. The chair would collapse if you sat on it. A plastic cloth, faded with age on the table. A can of spam and a small loaf from Aldi.
‘Hello control,’ ear stud said into his lapel, ‘We’re here. Over.’ Not real talk. Spy talk in a cable TV drama.
I sat in the corner, trying not to piss my pants. My head pounded. A car passed the window. I jumped at the noise. ‘I can’t do this,’ I said to myself, not daring to say it out loud.
The one without the ear-stud sat on a busted sofa. I saw his holster. He grinned at me, it was supposed to make me feel good. ‘You’re alright now,’ he comforted, ‘This is our best safe house. We’ve never lost anybody.’ He paused, ‘Not yet anyway.’
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 