Snow doesn’t seem amused by this. By me. It’s truly heartwarming how very unimpressed she is.
“How about I get you some water,” Snow offers, “so you can stop sounding like a sixty-year-old smoker?”
“Excuse you,” I scoff. “I’ve never even touched a cigarette. Smoking gives you cancer, they say.”
Snow doesn’t dignify that with a response. Good for her. Only morons banter with their prisoners.
Snow goes away then, leaving me alone. I think maybe I scared her off, which is disappointing.
But no, Snow comes back a few minutes later with a cup of water. Plastic, not glass. Glass would have been better. I could have crushed that in my hand and used the shards to do some damage to Snow. Her arm, or even her face. Her throat. She has a long neck. Elegant. Plenty of skin to cut into.
I could still do something with plastic. People can choke on plastic. But you gotta get it down someone’s throat first, and given the situation as it stands right now, shoving a beige plastic cup down Snow’s throat would take a level of fortitude and enthusiasm that I simply do not possess at this current moment in time.
I’m also beginning to get the sickening feeling Snow doesn’t deserve to die that way. Now, I’m no one’s fairy godmother. I don’t get to decide what’s fair and who deserves what, but. Well. There’s probably still time to find another way. Something that would sound good on a report. Something her family could be told about, maybe.
I keep my eyes fixed warily on Snow as she tips the cup towards my mouth, eventually giving in to social pressure and accepting the help, gulping down a few mouthfuls of ice-cold water. Fucking Christ, where did she go to get this water, Antarctica? What kind of bullshit water coolers do they have in this place?
Snow watches me as I drink from the plastic cup. She watches me like I’m a pesky fox who keeps tipping over her food bin at night. I don’t mind. It’s been a while since anyone found me this fascinating. Even OI got tired of watching me eat and shit eventually. These days, they just do it to be arseholes.
When I’m done, Snow takes the cup. She doesn’t look like she expects a thank you, which is a relief.
“I know you don’t believe we can help you,” Snow says without inflection. “I understand why you don’t believe it. But I believe Icanhelp you, Mr Roth, and I will endeavour to do so.”
It’s a very threatening lie, I’ll give her that.
“Do me a favour,” I say. “After you kill me, make sure OI finds my body.” I let out a short exhale, explaining, “I don’t want anyone to get hurt if they try to come for me.”
Snow’s mouth creases in displeasure although she doesn’t seem surprised. She might even say something else before she leaves me again, but I don’t hear it. I don’t hear or see anything. Even when people come to take me back to my cell. Even when I’m sitting alone in that same cell, scrunched up against an unmarked wall. Even when Leo comes to the door and asks me if I’m alright, asks me if it’s okay if he stays for a while. Even when Leo leaves after I don’t tell him it’s okay to stay, and he promises to come back soon.
I don’t feelpresent.
My mind is too full of Dan and Dan and Dan and and and—
CHAPTER EIGHT
JACK
They leave me in their cell for some indiscernible amount of time. With no light coming in, it’s impossible for me to tell how long it’s been. If I had to guess, I’d say maybe a week.
Leo Snow comes to visit me every day, under the guise of bringing food. He’s relentless in his pursuit of actual conversation. He asks me how I’m doing, what food I like so he can get it for me, if I want any books to read so I don’t get bored. As if boredom or the menu are things I should be worried about while incarcerated by a government agency, an agency that is fully aware of the role I played while working for OI.
When I make the mistake of letting him know I don’t have any pillows or sheets, he scampers off immediately, only to return hours later with two massive, puffy pillows and a Spice Girls blanket.
I keep expecting to be taken away for interrogation about OI or marched to the FISA labs to be poked and prodded and studied, like I have been my entire life.
But no one comes to my cell other than Leo.
He’s currently sitting outside my cell door, trying to engage with me like he has every single day since my little visit to medical following my attempted murder of his boss.
I sincerely hope he doesn’t view this as some bond-forming exercise. I don’t want to be responsible for that kind of deception, not outside of a mission. We are not friends, will never be friends, and the sooner he realises that the better.
“How are you getting on in there?” Leo asks for about the millionth time since we met. “Did you like the books I got for you?”
I glance over at the raised platform that should be for my bed. I’ve kept the mattress near the door, leaning up against the wall, just in case I need it for the purpose of defence. On the concrete platform is a small stack of books, the ones Leo appeared with one day despite the fact I did not answer his question about wanting any.
Breaking my rule of only answering every fifth question Leo asks, I reply mordantly, “Yes. I’ve been meaning to read the Twilight series for years and just haven’t found the time. I should have gotten imprisoned by a British spy agency ages ago. It’s like a holiday.”
Leo ignores most of it as he seems wont to do when I’m being sardonic with him, which is all the time.
