HERO

37 / A Last Supper

When the light is stolen, darkness can seem absolute. It can be a wall, built close enough to your eyes to block out anything else. In robbing you of sight and light, it accentuates sounds, giving them a clarity they'd never had before.

For Thomas, the closing of the door and the coming of the night was the guillotine blade slicing his head free of his body.

It was inevitable, he supposed. How could he escape the Spotters? It was their job and they were known to be good at it. At least he and Bren, though mostly her, didn't make it easy for them. They'd have been expecting him to be an easy target. A kid with no powers. Not even crazy. Just a boy. What could be difficult about that?

Well, they should ask David's team what they thought.

Thomas was reminded of the death of his attackers. Death was part of life, true. There was barely a day that went by without numerous murders or accidental, but fatal, maiming. None of it bothered him, really. This was different. They'd died trying to get at him. It was his fault and, for that, he was sorry. He knew it was a risk they all took. The Spot was not without its recruitment drives to replace the Spotters that didn't make it. A lunatic in control... no, in possession of powers was a dangerous adversary, no matter how young they were.

Powerless as he was, he'd still caused them to die. He mourned them. He mourned the innocence that died with them.

His eyes were getting used to the low light. He realised there wasn't a complete absence of light in the room, it was just a lot gloomier than the brightly lit corridor outside. The room was windowless and the door fitted its opening flush enough to allow no sharp edge of light to creep in, but a faint glow was coming from the display of an old digital alarm clock. It sat on a two drawered bedside cabinet that, in turn, stood beside a bed.

Thomas, given he was a prisoner, would have assumed there'd be perhaps a sink and a metal framed bed with a thin, so barely serviceable, mattress covered by a single sheet. Why give anything more to someone who was likely to not use it a second night? As such, the bed he was facing was a surprise. It was large, maybe a king size, and had thick pillows and a smart, two-tone bedspread. A white dressing gown, his approximate size lay on it with a pair of plain, equally white slippers on the floor next to it. Looking around, he saw a television with a games console hooked up to it. He couldn't see any connecting wires, and put that down to the need to not leave anything that might allow a suicide in the room.

Could he kill himself? If there were cables, would he fashion a noose and hang it and him from the ornate light fitting?

No. Death was coming, but he wouldn't hurry its arrival. Maybe it would miss its train or get diverted and forget all about him.

Probably not.

There was a note attached to the robe, the black writing easily visible against the white paper.

Change into these. Leave clothes by the door. Console switched on by voice. Controller in top drawer.

He changed quickly, folding his clothes neatly and putting them where he was told to. He could have defied the instructions, but it would prove nothing other than to show he was trying to be braver than he actually was. It wouldn't change the outcome. He opened the top drawer of the bedside cabinet. The controller was there, as promised, and he took it out. He wasn't sure he'd be able to concentrate on playing games, but maybe it was just what he needed. Something to divert his thoughts.

He could see scratches in the wood inside the drawer, but couldn't make them out properly. Though his eyes were more accustomed to the dimness of the room, they weren't quite at the stage he could read what seemed to be more than just random marks. A sweep of the room showed a switch next to the door. He moved to it and turned, rather than pressed, it, hoping it was a dimmer switch. It was and, thankfully, the room was lit by a triple bulbed light fitting.