February 7th

Last night I paid another visit to the department store, with the sole objective of extending my library. I have a voracious appetite for literature at the moment, both fact and fiction, and with so much spare time and my irregular sleeping pattern I'm getting through books at an alarming rate.

I swiped a large rucksack and filled it to the brim with all manner of titles, hefting it onto my back rather painfully as I realized how much pressure it put on my shoulders. This was distracting me somewhat, to the point that I didn't notice the security guard until he shouted at me to stop where I was. Of course, I didn't – I fled, coat billowing behind me like a ludicrous cape, rucksack chafing like an utter bastard. Everything had gone strangely slow motion again, just like when those kids tried to mug me in the park. Very, very odd.

This evening I'm going to take a jog around the park and see if I can replicate this strange sensation.

February 8th

I was already aware that the experimentation performed upon me during my Larkhill tenure had improved my reflexes and heightened my awareness of the world around me. Dr Stanton described it as basic kinesthesia, the ability to sense the position of objects in relation to ones self. I can feel it all the time, just an awareness of where things are without needing to see them. If you stood behind me, I'd know exactly what you were doing with your arms, for example. When coupled with my rather sensitive hearing, it's a rather annoying barrage of information when I'm in a busy situation, be that busy with people or something as innocent as the bushes moving around in the breeze.

My reflexes may have certainly been heightened, but they're backed up by un-natural speed. When the need occurs, the whole world seems to go into slow motion whilst I remain at normal pace, which can only mean in reality that I'm doing things terribly quickly. The other night when I legged it from the security guard was a prime example – I was gone, just like that. I traveled a much longer distance than should have been possible in the time. I don't really understand it and will have to try and get my head around this phenomenon and see if I can make it work for me.

I don't think that's everything though. Now that I am recovering and physically active once again, I find my strength seems to have increased far beyond that which seems to be the norm. For my slight frame, I'm able to lift, throw and punch far harder than seems possible. This isn't just me not remembering what it's like to be fit, it's something un-natural. Like when I broke that boy's wrist, I really didn't even have to try.

February 9th

One of my latest acquisitions is a 'pay as you go' mobile phone, stolen for the sole purpose of ordering take away food.

There are so many exquisite flavours out there that I must try, but going to restaurants isn't really an option for me. But a flash of inspiration led me to the Yellow Pages and armed with my phone I've started to work my way through the alphabet of local eateries.

The little tin foil tubs arrive every night and excite me immensely. This evening I had a curry – just a mild one, plenty spicy enough for my taste buds. Light, fluffy rice, creamy sauce, wonderful little onion thingies and warm naan bread. Very good indeed, and currently vying for the number one slot in my 'food top ten'.

February 10th

I'm wondering if I need my eyes tested. I can see perfectly well but I find bright light is terribly offensive, it makes me squint and I've been getting headaches whenever I'm subjected to it for too long. I noticed it in the hospital (I don't really remember if it was the case before, my cell was pretty dark and a light-induced headache was the least of my worries when I was in the medical testing labs) and it doesn't seem to be getting any better. Trouble is, with this bloody mask on I can't wear sunglasses. They'd never stay on the nose and anyways, I've really only got one ear for them to sit on. Maybe I could tape them on…

The trade off seems to be that my night vision is rather good. Give me anything short of pitch black and I can see quite happily. Even in true darkness I generally manage not to bump into things if I concentrate. A useful talent in my chosen field, no doubt.

At least at this time of year the nights are long and the days short. My sleeping pattern is rather erratic – if I've been out I often return in the small hours far too wired to get to sleep and will spend the remainder of the night reading or otherwise amusing myself, finally getting a few hours rest during the day. Sometimes I don't sleep at all – on some occasions I don't feel like I need it, others I crave sleep but my mind won't let me have it. I lie in bed begging my brain to shut up and let me rest but it never does, so I'll end up listening to the radio to distract myself – friendly voices talking about stupid things to blank out the far darker content of my own psyche. Reading is too much effort when I'm that tired, I can't even keep my eyes focused let alone hold a book up.

February 11th

Earlier today I met an old man going through the bins at the back of John Lewis – he was looking for food whilst I was having a sly look at the security. He joked that Halloween was several months away, then asked if I had any money for a cup of tea. Feeling flush from my recent thievery, I proffered a ten pound note, on the condition that he purchased one for me as well.

A man of his word, he returned promptly with two polystyrene cups from the nearby cafe. My drinking technique seemed to greatly amuse him – with the mask on it's all about knocking things back as you would when drinking shots. Looks ridiculous, I'm sure, and of course has to be done when the tea has cooled sufficiently to avoid burning the tongue.

Being a civilized chap, he introduced himself as 'Bob' and this made me realize that I don't actually have a name. I went for the hospital's 'John' for the duration of our chat, but it made me think. In fact, I've thought of nothing else for the last few hours.

I don't feel like a 'John' and the only repeatable name I was ever called at Larkhill was 'Five'. It was on my cell door, in the form of a roman numeral V. So I've decided that 'V' I shall be. A letter, not a number. I've been rolling it round my head for some hours now and it feels right. Suits me… well, suits night-time me anyway. I like night-time me, he creeps around in the shadows defying the law, worrying about very little. Daytime me I'm not so fond of, he's easily scared, spends too much time letting other people upset him, gets worked up about things that really shouldn't be so stressful.

God, reading that back makes me sound like I'm quite deranged.

February 12th


Had a different Larkhill dream last night. A change from the normally scheduled programming of torture, rape, pain and death.

I was back in my cell, crouched in the corner surrounded by fertilizer and grease, the stench of merging chemicals burning the back of my throat with every breath I took. It was dark, the only light being the weak glow from under the door. My perspective moved, I was no longer inside myself but up in the corner of the cell, looking down upon this desperate figure huddled against the wall. His lips were moving in a silent prayer as he carefully folded a small piece of paper over and over and over until it almost disappeared. He pulled his knees tight to his chest and rested his head upon them for what seemed like an eternity, breathing deeply and evenly. The head rose and as he reached for something with his right hand he looked me straight in the eye and winked before burying his face in one arm and blindly tossing the object toward me.

I woke up in a panic, roasting hot and hyperventilating. I ripped the mask off and had an increasingly violent argument with the suit, wanting nothing more than to be free of its constraints. Finally unleashed, I climbed into the shower and stood until the water went cold.

Unable to get back to sleep, I was forced to contemplate the content of the dream.

I thought I was going to die. I was ready for it. I'd go as far as saying I was looking forward to it – peaceful blackness, an end to all things. The way I had designed the explosives there was really no chance that I'd survive, having to be so close to ground zero by necessity of being the trigger.

When I came to, lying on the scorching concrete surrounded by flames, I thought I was in hell. Had to be. Only when I prised myself from the floor and took in my surroundings did it hit me – I was still alive. You'd think I'd have been grateful but no, all I felt was rage. It was pure rage that got me to my feet, pure rage that got me out of the remains of the cell block, pure rage that guided me through the burning maze of the medical section and out into the night. What did I have to do? What did the gods want from me? Why were they doing this to me, why could I not just rest? I remember raising my arms to the sky and roaring, damning the gods for ever creating this hellhole of a world. Laughing at the insects I could see all around me, running in terror from this hellfire of my own creation.

That intoxicating feeling of power ebbed away as I stumbled into the night, replaced by the crushing reality of my situation.