the total was four hundred and forty. Today the total so far is three hundred and thirty-six. I have been trying to work out a possible sequence. Yesterday I lost my cool. I shouted ‘love is all you need’ at the top of my voice each time the Bubble spoke to me in the voice of John Lennon. I was desperate to finish the line. I screamed the words until the back of my throat ached.
‘You will pay for your crimes, John.’
In my position, I’ve learnt to try and ignore such unhelpful comments from my electronic host.
It is hard though when the voice is that of one’s murdered wife. I can’t help but be impressed with the Bubble’s technology. It is as if my wife is inside here with me, whispering in my ear. I can almost feel her breath, my skin tingling under her caress. Except that the words aren’t hers. They are a machine in drag, mimicking my murdered lover and best friend.
‘You will pay, John.’
This is what I mean about the effect of the Bubble. Surely murderers would just get a kick out of this kind of stuff. They would probably revel in the reliving of the evil of their crimes.
But I am not revelling in this.
I can tell the drugs are beginning to once again run through my veins. My head is spinning, my vision taking great circular swings around an imagined space. I feel like I’m losing consciousness. A fairground ride. Shout if you want to go faster.
I am a murderer and am sorry for my crimes. I am truly sorry. I didn’t mean to kill them. I came home and caught my wife in bed with another man. I picked up the gun from my locked cupboard downstairs and from there things got a little tricky.
A man can make a mistake eh?
What? Yes, dear, I am sorry. Yes, I am prepared to repent.
I am now seeing a vision of my dead wife, Susan. The wife I murdered, I think. I’m sure that I wouldn’t have done this. I couldn’t have done such a thing. I loved her. How could I have done the things they say?
‘You’ll burn, John!’
I didn’t do these things. I didn’t. I swear. I am an innocent man! Whoever hears this, I am an innocent man!
I am walking up the drive towards my house, the time is seven thirty. The expensive gravel crunches under my feet like freshly lain snow.
Another day pouring over the Bubble.
I turn the handle on the door and enter the house. It is unusually quiet. I shout out the names of my wife and children.
Susan? Tom? Katy?
Nothing.
I walk up the spiral staircase. I approach the half-open lounge door, light flooding through the gap. I push the door open, and there they are. I involuntarily reach for my stomach, turn and vomit. I paid good money for that takeaway meal. I stumble through the devastation and grab the gun on the floor. The sticky blood clings to my shoes. I kneel before my wife, gun in hand.
There is no chance.
I reach for the phone and dial the emergency services. The door bursts open. My, the Police are fast these days. I am thrown on the red, sticky floor. My face buried in the rich pile of the carpet. I didn’t do it I shout.
The Bubble was not ready for human testing. But they ignored my pleas. It must go ahead they said, with or without your help, Dr. Laman.
They followed me in my car home from work. The road stretched ahead of me as Mozart played. In the rear view mirror a car appeared; a dark four wheeled shadow on the reflected horizon. They tried to force me off the road. But I escaped, slamming on the brakes and turning three hundred and sixty degrees to a violin accompaniment.
I am now spinning through a black space. So fast that I feel ill. Voices are circling me, calling out. Some I recognise, others I don’t. Now I’m falling. My stomach is turning. Let me out of here! Let me out! You bastards, eating your donuts and drinking coffee. You don’t have to live in this hell. For three months I’ve been in here.
I created a machine with devastating potential. The company wanted to use the Bubble for military purposes. To brainwash opposing forces one by one.
I am standing in my office. Through the viewing screen I watch the Bubble as its sleek aerodynamic outer shell reflects and directs the harsh white light around the research area.
My baby.
Now I am tied to my chair. Dr. Laman, the voice says, you have let the company down. We test on humans right away. We have lucrative markets to exploit. In the pursuit of scientific advancement there are always casualties along the way. You should be proud of your creation.
I am not proud.
I try to escape, to find my wife and children. I loosen the ropes around my wrists and reach the stairs. But my head is spinning. The steel steps come crashing into my skull as my balance deserts me. I can hear voices. It is my family. Susan is screaming, and Katie crying. Tom is shouting something at the top of his voice, but I can’t make out the words. I heard gunshots. There are three of them, piercing through the shouts and screams.
And then there are sirens, and lights.
All again is silent. I can see a bluish light that is touching and spreading over my chest. The light is getting brighter. It’s blinding me.
They are opening the Bubble.
I am again in darkness. The lights and drugs have not yet restarted. The men, who I could not properly see due to my ultra-sensitivity to light, told me that they had to make emergency checks to the inside of the Bubble.
They said that the drugs had not been reaching my body properly.
They said I had had much too an easy ride during the first two days.
It must be true. I have been in the Bubble for forty-eight hours. Not the three months I had calculated. I have eight more years left in my self-made prison.
Please, if you receive this message, get me out of here. I can only hold out for so long.
*******END OF TRANSMISSION*******
*******EXIT AUDIO FILE 1*******
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