Free Brotherhood of the Tomb by Daniel Easterman Page B

She seemed almost nervous. Her thin hands lay on her lap like pale, crustless crabs, naked and exposed. ‘What do you know of Migliau? Is he here? In Ireland? What have you heard? Have they set a date?’
    To all of these questions Patrick could only plead complete ignorance. His head ached and he longed for darkness. Even with his eyes closed, the bright light lanced his brain like a thin blade.
    ‘I’ve told you. All I know of “Passover” is that De Faoite mentioned it before he died.’
    ‘You mutter it in your sleep. I’ve heard you many times.’ This admission that she eavesdropped on Patrick’s moments of slumber did not seem to cause Natalya Pavlovna any awkwardness. She
    knew Patrick assumed it, expected it. Sleep was not sacrosanct. In the religion they shared, nothing was sacrosanct. They were like husband and wife now. Surely there could be no more secrets between them.
    He woke three or four times to find himself alone. By the fifth he was sure something was wrong. He was starving: why did no one come? He shouted and banged the walls, but there was no response. Exhausted, he fell asleep again. When he awoke, nothing had changed.
    He called out again. You can hear me, you bastards, you can hear me!
    ‘Where are you, Chekulayev? Where are you, Natalya? Why don’t you answer?’
    But no one responded to his entreaties. A ball of fear settled in his stomach.
    He crouched down by the wall, disorientated. So, they had changed tactics. Isolate him, deprive him of all human contact, starve him. He felt helpless and afraid. How long could he go on? His cupboard was bare, at least of those things Natalya Pavlovna really wanted to hear. Would lies suffice?
    He thought of ways to pass the time, mind games to blot out his growing distress. First, he taught himself to recite the Lord’s Prayer backwards, first in English, then in Latin, as he had learnt it as a child. After that he composed elaborate, meaningless poems in Arabic, in which each word began with the same letter and each line ended with the same rhyme. And he wrote letters in his head to everyone he had ever known. Still no one came.
    For a long time he stood defenceless at the mirror. He watched himself curiously, as he might have watched a monkey in a cage: his unshaven face, his red-rimmed eyes. Perhaps this was all there was
    left: himself and his reflection. If he vanished, he wondered, would the reflection remain there, like a wound after the knife has gone? He banged hard on the glass, bruising his knuckles.
    ‘Chekulayev, you fucker! Stop playing games! Get your ass in here, I want to speak to you!’ His voice sounded cracked and hollow, crashing against the tight walls and falling to the floor. For the first time, he was gripped by a fearful claustrophobia. It took him by the throat, forcing him painfully onto his knees, pressing him in onto himself. He began to sob. Tears coursed down grimy cheeks into his beard.
    Time passed. He grew calm and called again. Still no one came. There were no sounds. It was as if he had been buried alive. He pushed the thought out of his head. You’re still in the interrogation room. They’re out there, watching you. Hold on.
    He used the toilet and cleaned himself with a strip torn from his thin garment. There was no more paper.
    The fear grew more intense. More than ever, he had lost track of time and place. If he did not leave soon, this tiny chamber would become his tomb. He sank back on the floor, shaking. Surely now Chekulayev would decide that he had had enough. There was no need to continue the farce. He was broken. He would confess. Natalya Pavlovna would understand. There would be no gloating, no rebukes. Just relief that their ordeal was over. But no one came.
    He was not sure when the thought first came to him that something was very wrong indeed. He had conducted interrogations himself, he knew the score. Isolation was a valuable tool: it could break a stubborn spirit. But there were limits to