Grid

I feel the unearthly chill of concrete on my face and dust in my nostrils before I even rub my eyes open. Greeted by a small, windowless concrete box and a single, obsidian door looming over me, I finally peel my heavy lids apart, squinting like a new-born child against a naked bulb eerily rocking from side to side in an absent breeze. Coming only slightly to my senses, I've absolutely no recollection of how I got here – saying that, I have but little memory of recent. And for some strange reason, I cannot remember my name.

Maybe this is the brutal consequence of a blind drunken escapade. Like those raging pissheads you hear of that stay on the tube until they reach Heathrow, rampant and sloshed beyond measure, only to get arrested on foreign soil in an intoxicated frenzy trying to start a fight with the man at passport control. I could be feeling hungover. I bet I’ve done something fucking stupid and I’m in some rough Venezuelan jail for the next fifteen years, doomed for the midnight express. Whatever my name is. In all this life of turning my brain to mush, I don’t think I’ve never not been able to remember who I was the morning after, even if I had no clue the night before.

Pushing my back up against the cold wall behind me as I stare into the ominous door opposite. There’s not even a place to take a shit in here. If I have to use communal prison toilets, even for the most basic of functions, I’m definitely going to get murdered. Or worse. I’m not built for this. I notice the ghostly reflection of the bulb hovering close on the smooth glass-like surface of the door and

as if to reiterate the absurdity of my situation, the glowing orb floats down until it rests over a small handle on the inside of the door. I notice there are no bolts or hinges holding the door in place and is a handle on the inside of a cell not most unusual for a prison? Before I know it, the light has returned to its spot and I’m up off the floor and reaching for the door.

It’s unlocked.

I push it ajar and hear the mumbling crunch of many footsteps, bracing myself for what may follow. Maybe it’s a troop of snarling, suited-up policemen swinging truncheons around black helmets, eager and ferocious. Stepping out of the room, into a similarly lit corridor, the door closes abruptly behind me – not before I notice the light turn off as if by my absence. I’m swept into a meandering tide of dishevelled people of all shapes, kinds and sizes, unified in both the direction they are walking in and the fact that none of their clothes seem to fit. I look down at my own, a grubby pair of creased jeans, certainly not for men, and a stained green t-shirt, a number of sizes too small, exposing bulbous and expensive proof of a life in the boozer. That narrows it down.

With no choice but to follow the slow current down the interminable hallway, I try to catch the eyes of those walking beside me. A short man, with thick, brazen eyebrows and weathered cheeks tries to pretend he doesn’t clock me as his eyes dart back down to the dusty ankles of his trousers, a better fit than my own.

“Mate, what the fuck is going on?” I say, trying to keep my voice relatively low to save being singled out of this silent, shuffling stream too soon.

“I’m - not too sure.” He murmurs.

Is this guy smacked out? Why is no one else panicking? Is this some sort of twisted simulation or something? Saying that, I can’t remember making an autonomous decision to leave what now seems like my private little concrete haven.

This short story by Joe Bird is the beginning of a larger science fiction piece. The narrative itself is continuous but keep an eye out for episodes and snippets of the tale here at After Hours.