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I am – I used to be – a scriptwriter. I mainly wrote dramas, the kind of things that bored housewives and high-school teenagers watched religiously. I won an award for a drama I wrote back in the seventies. It was about child abuse. I’ve been shortlisted for more. I’ve come a long way. I’ve come to the top of my profession, or as close as I care to be.
I can’t remember much about the time before. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Ten years, twenty, thirty? No such thing as day and night any more, only the epileptic flickering of the screens. I think back to the voice that I heard, once. I shiver involuntarily at the memory. It was long ago, but the memory of the voice will not leave me. Not for a long time. Maybe never.
I remember. Almost a perfect imitation of a human voice. There was something wrong. Too dry, too flat in tone, too cold. Contempt almost tangible.
You are responsible. Have you realised that? You sit in your little houses in the warmth. You blinded yourselves, neither knowing nor caring about life outside.
Those words. Crucified into my mind. Bleeding through my thoughts, into my very being. Whoever spoke was outside my cell as the words floated through. Simply vibrations of air. How can vibrations of air hurt you?
The sky was blue, and the sun was shining, but a bitter wind still blew down the high street, stinging at the eyes. The street was busy, a steady stream of crowd of shoppers flowing back and forth along the wide pedestrianised concrete. It had been a mild autumn so far, hazy mellow days punctuated by the occasional spitting bursts of rain. The distant roar of cars along the dual carriageway was strangely muted here in the city centre, as if heard underwater.
A tall figure walked hurriedly along the street, collar turned up and fists clenched into the pockets of his long grey coat. He stopped by a shop window and lit a cigarette. It trailed a ghost of smoke behind him as he moved on. His shoes clicked insistently against the concrete, a small tapping sound. Impatient, he overtook an old couple that were meandering along next to a clothes shop. He kept up the pace of his stride as he did so.
The man turned left into a shopping centre, barely avoiding a petulant looking teenager with short greased hair and bad acne. He made his way straight to the escalator, glancing at the silver watch on his wrist. A brief river of annoyance ran across his face. Taking the steps two at a time he finally came to the top. He pushed open a large glass door and made his way out into a small side street.