Bunker Read Online Free PDF Page B

into his eyes. Murky brown eyes. I hold his gaze. He smiles, a broad smile, showing his teeth. Discoloured yellow teeth with gaps in them.
    â€˜Mmm.’
    I can’t get any more out, just ‘Mmm’. And I nod. He goes over to the table, tips the contents of a plastic bag out on it. Assorted rolls, half a loaf of dark rye bread, pretzels. From another bag he produces butter and a packet of sliced sausage wrapped in paper. He takes the slices apart with his fingers and puts them on a plate. Then several bottles of beer,standing them neatly side by side. Putting out the sausage with dirty, unwashed fingers, drinking beer, of course, just the sort of thing he’d do.
    He grunts, lights a camping stove. He’d already taken it out of his backpack. He’s really made himself at home here. Now he produces a pan as well. Fries eggs.
    â€˜Like some?’
    â€˜Mmm.’ I won’t really like anything you give me, but I’m feeling quite ill with hunger, my stomach’s rumbling. Hesitantly, I sit down at the table.
    â€˜Why am I here?’
    He puts the pan of fried eggs down in front of me.
    â€˜Eat it!’
    â€˜What do you want me for? Why am I here, for God’s sake? Talk to me!’ My voice cracks, sounds oddly squashed. Tears come into my eyes. I don’t want the bloody fried eggs any more, I put my arm back ready to sweep the pan off the table. He grabs my arm, forces it down on the table.
    â€˜Eat it!’
    He slowly relaxes his grip and lets my arm go. Inside me, feelings of helplessness, rage and fear are competing with each other. I start eating. First slowly, reluctantly, then faster. Rapidly. I stuff myself, eat the whole pan of eggs greedily. I mop up what’s left with bread. There are tears runningdown my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my hand.
    He is sitting beside me, watching me, doesn’t say a word. After he’s finished several beers, he stands up, clears away the crockery and the camping stove, puts it all in a wooden crate.
    â€˜Going to wash these things up. The only water’s outside.’
    He opens the trapdoor, climbs down the steep stairs. The door latches behind him. Creaking sounds, then silence. I hope he falls downstairs and breaks his neck.
    A fly gets to work on what’s left of the breadcrumbs on the table. It crawls back and forth, carefully cleaning its feelers and its face. Buzzes over to the window and then back to the table, settles on my hand. Normally I’d hit it, kill it, today it’s a welcome diversion.
    It must be at least an hour since he left.
    I have to get out of here! I go over to the trapdoor. It’s either jammed or locked; I tug until my fingers hurt. That bastard has locked me in! He’s keeping me prisoner. Like an animal, he feeds me so I won’t die on him. The arsehole!
    I get to work on the crack around the edges of the door, levering with a kitchen knife he left up here until the blade breaks off. I’m an idiot, I might yet have used that knife as a weapon.
    It’s quiet in this room, all I can hear is the fly buzzing as itmoves from side to side at the bottom of the window frame. Now and then, with a tiny thud, it collides with the glass and runs up and down the pane.
    I go over to the window, shake it, it won’t open. Clouds are slowly moving past. I stand on the chair; I can just see the treetops of the forest – they’re conifers. I could break the pane, but I think better of that one at once. The window is too narrow. I couldn’t get through it.
    I search the room again. It’s pointless, but there must be something I could use to break the door down. I haven’t yet looked inside the chest of drawers. Teabags, dustpan and an ancient brush, newspaper, a small photograph frame. I have a photo frame like that at home, wood painted black, just the same. Curiously, I pick up the photograph frame, take it out, turn it over.
    And stare at the picture,