Debriefing Now
#1 --- Debrief : Subject One.
Transcript of recorded session --/--/03
Grid Interview Room No. 2
Time of interview 8.17am; (Session manager Q&A omitted for fluency)
Do we have to do this now?
No, really. Can we just...fuck this off? For a minute. For a while.
Christ, man, I haven't even had a shower and a coffee yet. Turn it off.
Turn it off.
Subject becomes agitated.
Interview terminated 8.23am
#2 --- Debrief : Subject Two.
Transcript of recorded session --/--/03
Grid Interview Room No. 5
Time of interview 8.09am; (Session manager Q&A omitted for fluency)
Look, do you think I might finish my cup of tea first?
Oh god. All right. Fire away.
Yes, I was.
No. No, I wasn't. I was returning from the illegals thing. (untranscribed)...bloody mess.
Heard it. Over the wire. So I went.
I was closer.
Yes, but they were sweeping a three mile arc. I was closer. Am I supposed to apologise?
Yes.
Yes.
Tom was...Tom was in the safe house. Near the kitchen. He was sitting on the floor.
No. I didn't see her. And then I asked him... And he said...he just shook his head. So I knew. I knew she was dead.
No. We had no information at that point. I just tried the safe house -- it was the nearest location for the take out. I didn't know Helen was... I didn't know she was dead until he told me.
How do you bloody think? He was a mess. I just... I don't know. I knew I had to get him out of there, so I just helped him to my car and then we took off. Harry wanted him brought back to the office, but --
Interview interrupted 8.20am.
Recommenced after break 8.41am
Yes, sure. Whatever you like.
No, sorry.
Oh, right. Um...I was supposed to bring Tom back to the office, but he looked terrible, so I took him to medical.
About an hour...an hour and a half? I don't really know. I wasn't there, I was called straight through. There'll be a record, I imagine -- from the doctor's chart, probably. (Pause) I hope you're not asking him all these questions, you'll probably get a pretty rough response -- he still looks pretty shite.
Not really. He said that Helen was dead. And he asked me to take him home.
Well, he was rambling a bit really. He was in shock -- as you can imagine.
I told him I was taking him to medical. That's it.
Yes. That was it.
About a forty minute drive.
What can I tell you? We didn't exactly have a chat. (Pause) He could hardly talk.
I don't think so.
Fine.
Interview terminated 8.48am
When I get to the safe house I'm comforted by the fact that there's no other cars there. I know he's on foot, so at least I can be fairly certain there's no bad guys nearby. Fairly certain. I'm torn by the both the desire not to expose myself if anybody is around, and the need to let Tom know that I'm here, that help has arrived. I forget about exposure and go for the torch. Wide beam.
Hurry versus caution. I enter slowly. The door is unlocked, and then the second door, and that's when I see him. He's sitting on the floor, on the step. He looks ghastly. Worse is his expression. I think it's the first time I've actually seen him look frightened. I've seen plenty of the 'pensive' looks, the 'worried, anxious' looks, the 'calm in the face of disaster' looks...this is totally new. I feel like I'm approaching an animal, scared and beaten and run away from its owners. And I'm glad it's me that got to him first and not Osbourne -- he looks like he's on his last legs.
"It's me," I say. It comes out very tentative. I'm still appalled by his appearance, and it's made me go all quiet.
He blinks against the light from the torch, and sees me, for real. Something in his manner changes -- I can see the relief and the exhaustion as his whole body slumps a little. He looks like he's deflating.
It occurs to me then. He's alone. I look about for a moment.
"Tom, where's Helen?"
The question is out before I realise that I don't need to ask. And his expression flattens out, his head nodding back, resting against the wood of the door. We are still keeping eye contact, so he must see how I curdle up at the news. For a second. Just a second, because we don't have time to deal with it now.
No, we don't.
My fingers are numb.
I swallow and remember what I'm doing, right now, this moment. I check the rear for lights. Nothing. But it doesn't mean we can stay here. This is no safe house anymore. I move towards him.
"Come on, we have to get you out of here."
Both of us -- we both have to get out. But when I'm kneeling down beside him, looking at him, trying to assess the damage, I don't know where I'm supposed to put my hands to assist. He looks sore all over.
"Can you walk?"
He looks away, as if he's doing a mental inventory of what's happened to him physically, then he nods, kind of floppy, and he opens his mouth and his lips move 'Yes', but nothing comes out. It takes a second. He wets his lips and tries again.
"Yes."
His left side is nearest the wall, so I take his right arm over my shoulders, slip my hand around his waist and start to help him up -- and it's only at that point that I realise which is the sore side. He makes a gasping, choked sound, and then his cheekbones go into high relief as all the colour suddenly drains from his face. I want to put him down but he's up now, leaning heavily on me -- I have a momentary panicked flash of how difficult it will be for me to get him to the car if he passes out. But he blinks hard about a million times, and forces his eyes open, and then he's very wobbly but standing. He weighs a ton.
"Are you right? Let's go."
In this awful, shambolic, slow way -- through the doors, down the path - we stagger to my car. I prop him against the side while I open the passenger door and adjust the seat back for his long legs. Then I help him inside, or rather hold him while he makes a slow collapse into the passenger seat. Obviously feeling slightly undignified now, he does make some attempt to lift his feet in by himself.
Then I run around the other side, slide in, start up. It's still raining, a delicate mist. I've hardly noticed until I find I have to put on the wipers to clear the windscreen. And my hair is damp. It doesn't matter.
I wheel the car around, and drive over the legal limit.
We sit in the car in silence. I am giving him what looks I can spare from the road. He's holding his right side with his left hand, and his mouth is closed. I realise that he's only spoken one solitary word since I found him, which doesn't seem very good. And he's had time now to cogitate, to mull things over. Just like the body after injury, the mind too starts to stiffen up. At the moment, he's staring intently at the whizzing bitumen in front of the hood, the illumination from the car headlights making his eyes seem glossy and clear and over-bright.
When he inclines his head to the right - towards me, gaze still fixed forward - and opens his mouth and speaks, I almost jump.
"Helen's dead."
It's a bald, flat statement. He's not telling me information. He's just reiterating.
I watch his face for a second. Suddenly, this unease -- this sense that I need to weigh my answers.
"I know, Tom."
He doesn't make any move to acknowledge. We sit in silence again. In the dark. Streets whirl by. I'm glancing at him more often.
"Helen's dead."
The same dull monotone. The wormy fear, foreboding, wriggling up through my insides to shiver the back of my skull. I look at his face, his huge eyes, and then see his hands, the fingers trembling. Fuck protocol. Harry can deal with it later.
"They want me to take you back to the office --" I start, even but fast. Very calm.
"Just take me home," he says. His voice is slurring and quiet.
I watch the road.
"I'm taking you to medical."
I swing the wheel as I take a corner too quickly.
No response. I drive hard, and wonder that I'm avoiding being pulled over.
I drive and drive.
About two minutes later, his voice makes me startle again.
"Your beams are on high."
I look at him for as long as is allowable. I don't want him to see me looking, see me staring, the look of fright on my face. I'm frightened for him. God, I'm terrified. I flick my headlights back to low. My voice comes out as a whisper.
"Thank you."