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as the men began to walk away.
    ‘Hey,’ shouted
John and he slammed his fist against the door. ‘Hey, come back.’
    Salvia clung to
the door like dead bugs on a windshield as he continued to slam and shout. ‘You’ve
got to tell me what’s going on?’
    ‘Mr. Johnson,’
came a voice from the other side. ‘Get some sleep. I will come and see you
tomorrow. Have you been fed?’
    ‘Yes, I’ve been
fed and watered. Enough to keep me alive, but what’s the point?’
    ‘Please Mr. Johnson, there’s a point
to all of this. I know you won’t want to hear this but we’re kind of making
this up as we go along. This is new to us as well.’
    ‘What is new?
Who is us?’ John’s voice began to break with exhaustion. He fell to his knees
and struck the door with one more feeble hit.
     
    It was two more
days before John heard the rattling of keys and the turning of the lock. Since
the muted words from outside there had been silence all around; the days were
only broken by the three meals slotted to him through the over-sized and
floor-level opening on the door. Water was on constant supply from a sink and a
random selection of juices, squashes and the occasional pot of coffee
accompanied his meals.
    The main room
contained a double bed, surprisingly comfortable, with a slight hardness that
John liked. It served as a constant reminder that all of this was real. The
rest of the room consisted of a small writing table but no implements with
which to compose any correspondence ( or suicide notes , he morbidly
thought, hoping it would never come to that.) A flat screen television hung on
the wall in line with the bed. The remote control that he now held in his hand
was as blank and logo-less as everything else in the room. All objects were a
dirty white with a sprinkling of black. Black cushions on the bed and black
plastic cups for drinks. Leading off from the room was a decent sized bathroom.
Again tiled in white with a black shower curtain and toilet seat. Toothbrushes,
towels and flannels were all supplied and thankfully there appeared to be an
endless supply of toilet roll (white) stored in the cupboard under the sink.
The water, which he had drunk sporadically at first but now downed more than
ever, held a pleasant chill. Hot water was on-demand 24/7 and the room remained
a comfortable twenty-three degrees at all times. The gentle hum of the heating
always a background droll. The only window was barred. Black curtains hung
either side. He had soon discovered that even this was for aesthetic purposes
only. The light was artificial, from a source within the room next door.
    He had what he
needed but not what he wanted. He had been treated well, and his daily room
service was punctual and plentiful, but this didn’t hide the fact that he was a
prisoner. In a prison of bland, cheapness – the rawness of an actual prison
cell may have been easier to adjust to.
    John sat on the
edge of his bed, staring at the blank TV screen. When there was nothing on
(which was often) it was either this or stare at the barred window. He preferred
this.
    He heard the
approaching footsteps grow louder and the clatter of keys being removed from a
pocket, but did not react. He continued to sit facing the TV with his eyes
shut, breathing steadily - attempting to remain as composed as anyone could in
his situation.
    ‘There are
three more men out here,’ came a voice as the door slowly opened inwards. ‘Do
not try anything.’
    John almost
managed a smile before opening his eyes and watched the man enter the room. He
wasn’t lying, behind him stood three more men, none looked particularly
threatening, each with an inquisitive look and trying to catch a glimpse of
their prisoner.
    ‘May I come
in?’ said the man leading the way.
    ‘You really are
new at this.’
    ‘What do you
mean by this ?’
    ‘Kidnapping.’
    ‘Mr. Johnson,
you have not been kidnapped.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Well, not
quite.’ The man entered and closed the door.