CELL

/ THIRTY FOUR /

"Is it on? Is it recording? I hate doing this."

"It's on, sir."

The first voice was unmistakably that of Dad. It was softer, though. On the phone, he had sounded gravelled. Older. Tired. On the tape, the man had yet, it seemed, to face the trials his actions forced upon him. Or that he forced upon Ryan and others like him. The fact he was listening to a cassette, rather than anything digital, showed the age of the recording, so perhaps – and hopefully – Bradley Sr. was feeling oppressed by life. He didn't deserve to be carefree.

Whose was the other voice? It wasn't one Ryan recognised, though that wasn't surprising. He'd only met a few of Bradley Sr's employees. For an undertaking of this enormity, there'd have to be a great many more. Any one of them could be the second person.

Well, not any. It wasn't Pedra or the Doc. It didn't sound like Jarvis and couldn't be Kravitz. That was only four, so it didn't narrow it down. Besides, it didn't matter, really. Anyone outside of those he'd encountered were just extras in a movie and, as such, were expendable. He imagined them all wearing red shirts, which, according to Star Trek, meant their death was imminent. Perhaps it was, and perhaps he was the one to bring it about. They may well have families and children and pet dogs that went to sleep tucked into their thighs on the sofa, while bring unconsciously stroked. Who gave a fuck? As innocent as they might be outside of work, they were as culpable as both Bradleys inside. They would know what was being done to his fellow captives who were, hopefully, in the process of escaping.

So, they were guilty. Every single one.

Bradley Sr cleared his throat uncomfortably. There was a rattle to his cough as if phlegm had settled in his throat and his cough was struggling to clear it.

"Are you OK to continue, sir?"

"Yes, Emily. I'm fine. Just a cold or something. I catch everything, nowadays. Fucking immune system. Don't grow old or get cancer, you hear me?"

"I'll do my best sir."

"Well, hopefully, I can help you with that."

"I have no doubts, Dr Bradley. We're too close to not succeed."

"Thank you, Emily. Your faith is inspiring."

So, Emily was decidedly in the Bradley gang. If she was still around and he met her, he'd have to be careful. Or brutal.

He wasn't a killer, he knew that. He could tell. He had a calm interior, though that could be because it was so empty in there. He didn't think so, however. Thoughts of murder and death were a result of the casual manner Bradley, Bradley and Co. treated life. Ryan believed he wasn't even a violent man, let alone one prone to murder. That didn't mean he wouldn't defend himself. It didn't mean he wouldn't strike back if provoked.

So, could he be brutal? He'd already proven to himself he was able to rise to a situation demanding of a darker side. He was becoming somebody else. Whether he liked it or not, it was a necessary transformation. He hoped it was something he could control or guide, otherwise he'd be no better than those who had stolen him from... before.

Perhaps, he would still like himself when all this was over.

Perhaps, he'd still be in a position to have feelings about himself either way.

The conversation on the tape had continued while his thoughts had drifted. Shit! What had he missed? He was about to rewind the tape when Bradley said:

"Right, let's get on with it."

Small talk was the saviour of the wandering thought.

"Sir," said Emily. "For the benefit of the listeners, can you introduce yourself?"