Scott Mariani - The Doomsday Prophecy

She tried to piece together what had happened next. She could remember the house she’d been kept in when she’d first been taken, and how she’d tried to escape. She shivered, recalling the fair-haired man. She wondered where he was now. The thought of him coming back, walking into her room, terrified her.

She thought back to the journey here – wherever here was. The seaplane had carried her over islands and across the blue sea before the bumpy landing somewhere within sight of the mainland. She’d kept asking where they were taking her, but nobody would speak to her. A speedboat had come out to meet them, and taken her to shore with two of the men. They’d dragged her up the rocky beach to a deserted minor road where a van had been waiting. The men had shoved her into the back. She remembered how hard she’d screamed and kicked as they’d held her down, convinced she was about to be gang-raped and then murdered. But instead, they kept a grip on her arms as a third man took out a syringe from a black leather case. He’d stooped down and jabbed the needle into her. She’d cried out.

The next thing she remembered was waking up on a hard bunk in a cold room with no windows. Bare concrete walls and just a single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. She’d been kept there for four days – four more days of going slowly insane with frustration and terror.

There’d been visitors to her cell in that time. One of them was a man who brought her food and water. She drank the water but left most of the food. A couple of times a day he’d let her out and walk with her to a stark, windowless bathroom at the end of a concrete corridor. He never spoke, never smiled.

Then there was the man in the dark suit. He’d been to see her three times now, and she dreaded his visits. He was tall and lean, about fifty, with slicked-back hair. His face was craggy, and when he smiled that cold smile his teeth were uneven and fanglike. He had the look of a wolf.

Wolfman just wanted to talk about one thing. Where was it?

All she could reply was ‘I don’t know.’ It was becoming like a mantra. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

Wolfman obviously hated hearing it, even more than she hated saying it. The first time she’d seen the cold rage flash through his eyes, she’d thought he was going to start screaming and shaking her, like the fair-haired man had done. But Wolfman was more controlled. He just smiled and pressed on with the same line of questions. Where was it? What had she done with it? She only had to tell him what she knew, and everything would be OK again. They’d let her go. Take her home and make sure she got back safe.

But however hard she tried, she just couldn’t remember, just couldn’t give him what he wanted. After hours of it, she’d break down and start sobbing, and he’d sit there staring impassively at her for a while, then leave without a word and lock the door behind him.

The third regular visitor was the doctor in the white coat. He looked in his late forties, overweight, balding, bearded. From his first visit, he’d been kind to her, though there was something nervous about his smile. He’d checked her temperature and blood pressure, listened to her heart, examined the fading bruise on her head. He seemed sympathetic and genuinely anxious for her to get her memory back. He spent a lot of time asking her questions too, but his were gentle. Some she could answer and some she couldn’t. He noted her responses on a pad.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Zoë Bradbury.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-six.’

‘What month are we in?’

‘June, I think.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why are you here?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What happened to you?’

‘I don’t know.’

He never pushed harder than that, and never mentioned the things that Wolfman kept asking about. She wanted to open up to him. ‘I’m scared,’ she’d said to him again and again. ‘Where am I? What’s going to happen to me?’

He never replied to her questions. Just smiled and told her everything would be all right. Her memory would return in time.

But she could see behind the smile, and the look in his eyes was telling her that he wasn’t so sure everything would be all right.

From the doctor’s second visit, two days ago now, she’d been aware of some kind of tension between him and Wolfman. There’d been angry whispers outside her door, and once there’d been an argument some way down the corridor outside that she’d strained to hear but couldn’t make out.

Then, yesterday, the doctor had come to see her again. This time there’d been a woman with him. Not the woman from before. This one had dark red hair, not black. She was smiling, but when she leaned against the wall, Zoë saw the butt of the gun sticking out of the holster under her jacket.

The doctor had sat by the bed. His voice was soft. ‘I have some good news for you, Zoë.’

‘I’m going home?’

He’d smiled sadly and patted her arm. ‘Not just yet. But we’re moving you to a nicer room, where you’ll be more comfortable. I think you’ll like it there.’

‘I just want to get out of this place!’ Zoë had yelled.

He and the woman had left then. She’d waited all day for their return, and fallen asleep thinking it must have been some kind of cruel trick.

They’d finally come back that morning, along with two more men she didn’t recognise. The men acted like guards and said nothing. Zoë had been thankful that Wolfman wasn’t with them.

The doctor had led the way. The woman walked with her, and the guards followed quietly behind. Instead of turning left for the bathroom, they turned right and went all the way up the drab corridor to a doorway. Beyond it was another corridor, and then they’d come to a lift. The woman had pressed the button for the top floor.

They’d stepped out into a different world. The walls were white, with sun streaming in through big skylights. At the end of another corridor they’d shown Zoë to the room she was in now. It was twice the size of the old one, with its own little bathroom. The bed was comfortable, and at the foot of it some fresh clothes had been laid out for her. In one corner was a table with some magazines and a little personal DVD player and a stack of movies for her to watch. She remembered what movies were, though she couldn’t recall having ever seen one. It was a strange feeling.

‘You rest a while,’ the doctor had said as they left her. ‘Tomorrow we’re going to start your therapy sessions. We’ll get your memory back.’ Then he’d winked at her and locked the door.

Now, as she lay there waiting for tomorrow to dawn, she thought about what was in store. The doctor seemed kind, and her instinct told her she could trust him. But another voice in her head told her that the doctor wasn’t in charge of things here.

Sleep was impossible. Her heartbeat wouldn’t settle. She sat up in the bed, ran her hands through her hair and over her forehead. Somewhere inside here, buried deep inside her mind, was the information these people wanted.

And if it came back. What then?

Corfu

Ben left the cove and walked back towards Kérkyra, taking his time, deep in thought. He dumped the garbage sack with the remains of the duffel bag and his phone in a bin. In the centre of town he stopped to buy a couple of new shirts, a new pair of jeans and a canvas military-style shoulder bag. He stuffed the clothes in the bag, slung it round his neck and mingled with the crowds. In the aftermath of the bombing there was a subdued feeling in the air, a tingle of apprehension, shock and rage. The streets were noticeably emptier, and people looked tense. The carnage was on every newspaper front page. Police were everywhere.