You’ll go down to the basement after you’re done up here, the Director says in our language. To the American he speaks English: Mimi is good cleaner. His accent is a tight knot that bites into his Adam’s apple. The American nods. He’s satisfied.

I frown. Why can’t the new girl do it? 

She can’t work nights. She’s got children at home.

My stomach knots and rises into my throat.

You’re punishing me because my boy’s not here.

The Director shrugs. Our guests – he glances at the American – need our help. He blinks a slow apology. You will be paid extra.

Mee-mee, the American says. Mee-mee. He gives me a thumbs up and grins. His teeth are the white of heavens, but his eyes focus like a laser. I almost drop my mop.

Yes sir.

The only words I know in English. But I’m learning. When my boy studied English in school he’d teach me over dinner. Now I watch reruns of The X Files alone and I catch myself saying out loud: Eye vont to be-leef. He doesn’t correct my pronunciation.  

When I’m about to go home the American gets in my way. It’s Friday afternoon and everyone’s gone. Why shouldn’t I?

Mee-mee, he points at me.

Yes sir.

He motions for me to follow him downstairs. Only now do I notice it’s quiet. For the first time in months the building doesn’t shake with drills and hammers and the tinny sound of the builders’ radio.

There’s a keypad on the brand-new metal door. The American punches in a four-digit code. A red light changes to green and the door hums open.

The basement reeks of fresh cement and paint. It’s cold too, not like upstairs. I wrap my arms around myself and exhale sharply. The American clicks the light switch on.

It’s like looking straight into the sun, that’s how bright it is. Neon lights flicker into cold whiteness to reveal walls so recently painted they still look sticky. The floor’s tiled in white like in an abattoir. Trapped between the ceiling and the walls and the floor is a vast space which sprawls out with nothing to stop it.

Wait until I go home and tell my boy what these Americans have built.

My boy.

My boy’s gone.

It doesn’t feel real. Not here, in this sea of white.

I cough. I’m drowning in it all. The smell, the cold, the absence.

The American is watching me.

Wow, I say. 

He opens his arms, palms up. Here’s your kingdom. He sticks his tongue out. Lick it clean. He grins. He doesn’t think I understand, but I do.

Sir?

Yes, Mee-mee?

I thought I’d start tomorrow, I want to say, but don’t find the words. I don’t want to start at all. Don’t leave me down here alone. I cut the air with my hands and shake my head.

The American nods. Yes, Mee-mee. He points to the floor, mimics mopping, gives me his stupid thumbs up. He leaves. The door hums and shuts. I try the handle. Nothing. He’s locked me in here, the brute.

That knot in my throat, I scream it out. No one hears, no one comes.

I begin to notice the marks the builders left: smears, sawdust, fingerprints. Lengths of cable that connect nothing. My cleaning things, I’ve left upstairs, so I look for a supply closet. That’s how I find the cubes. They’re made of plywood – painted, like everything else here, white. I walk into the first one because I don’t notice it in the monotony of the place. On impact the cube shivers and creaks. I drop to the floor to look underneath. They’re there – easier to hear than see. Springs.

The cube’s mounted on springs.  

Once my eyes adjust and my brain knows what to look for, the next five cubes gradually appear. They’re set about a metre apart.

I think of my boy, and of the science fiction shows he likes – liked – to watch. This space reminds me of a spaceship.

Or is it a laboratory?

Have the Americans found aliens? Would they bring them here, to our country, to this basement, to study?

I search each side of the cube for a way in. One side slides horizontally.

From the inside the same blinding light spills out. Spots embedded in the low ceiling, along the walls, into the floor. I squint until it hurts.  

The screen slides to reveal bars. Like a jail cell door. So cold to the touch they burn my callused fingers. Metal. 

These aren’t cubes. They’re cages.

I step inside and I lose my balance. As the ground rushes towards me I throw my palms in front but what a load of good that does. I lay my head down and curl up but it’s only worse. The ceiling approaches and recedes.

The cage never stops moving. I turn to one side and vomit.

I have to crawl out on hands and knees. My body no longer listens to me.

My head wobbles like it’s peopled with drunks.

I don’t know how long it takes me to stand up again. I feel my heart pounding all over my body. The American might be back any time now. I rush to the far end of the basement, where I’ve spotted a door. It leads to a small bathroom which has a cupboard full of cleaning supplies. I swallow my tears and slip a pair of rubbers gloves on.  

Yes sir, I repeat while I scrub my bile off the cage floor.

I finish work and run to catch the night bus. The journey is a slalom through the worst the city has to offer, but I make eye contact with no one and close my fist around the penknife in my jacket pocket and my legs keep me going until I get home. In our eighth-floor one-bed flat I pick at what’s on the kitchen table and collapse on the sofa. Old reruns of The X Files. Eye vont to be-leef.

Eye wont tuh buh-leev, my boy corrects me. I smile.

I nod off with the tv on mute until seven.

Breakfast’s ready! I shout from the kitchen while I clean up last night’s barely touched dinner. From my boy’s bedroom I hear grunts and sleepy stretching.   

When the sun’s up in the sky I get into his unmade bed and try to sleep but all I do is sniff his pillow, his sheet, his duvet, chasing his already-fading smell.  

In the afternoon I cook dinner and leave the covered pot on the hob. When I remember my boy’s gone, my throat tightens and my eyes fill with tears but I swallow them down and chuck the food in the bin.

No. I scribble a little note on how to reheat the food. I leave the note on the table where my boy will find it.

I miss him so much it’s like someone’s pulling a healthy tooth out of my mouth, over and over.

I get to work when the public servants leave. On any given day only one cube is unlocked. Off the floor I mop away what looks and smells like urine, vomit, blood. Clean fluids like saliva or tears. There’s a bucket in the corner I empty and bleach, but often there’s excrement on the floor too, sometimes smeared on the white walls.

No matter how bad the basement reeks when I arrive, by the end of my shift bleach is all anyone could smell.

It’s not the nature of what I’m cleaning that troubles me; I’ve seen it all before. It’s how human it seems. Are these aliens so much like us? What would a mother feel if her son was locked away like this?

I still hate the springs, even after all these weeks. The vertigo gets worse and lasts longer every day. The whiteness of the room squeezes my head. But I must do my job.  

Sometimes I hear moans and groans of pain. I can’t even tell if they’re mine anymore.

Today I’ve a migraine so horrible I hide away from the bright light in the closet. I’m exhausted. Lately my boy and I have been watching too many episodes of The X Files, practicing English. With my knees pulled to my chest I doze off.

When I come to, my mouth is sour with nightmares in which my boy’s disappeared, locked away in a cage of light.

I hear the American’s voice. He’s shouting. I step out of the closet and make for the bathroom door. Another sound. I turn my good ear to the door.

It’s a whimper. A muffled cry. Like a sack of kittens tied at the mouth on its way to the brook.

I bring my eye to the gap between door and frame. Through the slit I see the open jail cell of a cage. There’s the American, straight-backed and looming. Next to him there’s another man of a similar build. And kneeling on the tiled floor, a prisoner.

An alien?

His cuffed hands and bare feet look human. There’s a black sack over his bowed head. The man forces the prisoner up. He crumples to the floor with a dull thud.

I hold my breath and stare.

The American pulls the sack off the prisoner’s head. A cry rips through the air then the prisoner’s head lolls forward. For a moment I see his face. I cover my ears and squeeze my eyes shut. A scream builds up inside and I open my mouth wide but I don’t let it out.

I force myself to look again.

He’s not an alien.

He

He is

He’s my

He’s my boy.

The American slaps his beautiful face with so much force my boy’s head flops left to right like he’s got no bones in his neck. The other man forces his narrow shoulders back and holds him up. My boy’s eyes are half closed and his knees buckle under him and he wilts under the American’s glare.

What’s his name, you useless worm? Tell me or I’ll make sure you never leave this place.

I hold my hands over my mouth. I press hard.

My boy, he died one month, three days, and fifteen hours ago. That’s what I’ve been told. But he hasn’t, has he? The Americans had him. All along. Where did they keep him? Was he under my nose the entire time?

I open my penknife and I push the blade into my palm to keep from screaming. If my boy feels pain, I must too.

Could I take them?

Come on, says the American to the man, we gotta go.

They throw him back into the cage and shut the door and slide the screen and they’re gone. The cage creaks on its springs.

I run to him. I push my shoulder into the plywood panel, and it slides so easily I lose balance and fall into the cage. My boy squints and stares at me. His face is confused and much changed. But it’s him. It must be. The cut in my palm is bleeding. My blood is rushing to meet him.   

Around us the cage shivers.

Don’t you recognise me?

He doesn’t. No matter.

I snap the plastic ties that bind his wrists and ankles. He stands up too fast and he holds on to me to steady himself. He’s lighter than he was as a child.

Let’s go home. His eyes are vacant. He says something in a language I don’t know. They must’ve brainwashed him.

I help him to the door. I know the code. I’ve seen the American punch it in enough times. I sneak him out of the building. No one sees us. 

Outside the sun shines and the birds chirp as if they know I’ve found him.

Let’s go home, I tell my boy but he’s no longer there. Barefooted he hobbles down the cracked asphalt, past the parked cars. I want to follow but my own legs won’t budge.

The Director stops in front of me.

Mimi.

I look over his shoulder. My boy’s gone.

He squeezes my arm. How are you?

I meet his eyes. The Americans are hurting people. Down there. They’re torturing boys –

Don’t cry. It’s all right. He offers me his handkerchief.

Sir, they’re torturing –

The Director glances around then leans in close. The Americans are trusting us with this, Mimi. His tone is harsh. We can’t disappoint.

You know. And you’re doing nothing!

I don’t know anything! Nor do I want to. I understand you’ve been through a lot since your son’s – No mother should live to bury her child. But you have a job to do. Do it!

I walk, catching glimpses of the hurt boy at every corner. The empty flat sucks the breath out of me. On the kitchen table flies circle his plate of food. I shut the sun out and switch on the lights and I pull the springs out of his mattress and I glue them to the feet of the table and I lay my head down and I wait for my boy to come home.

---

Maria-Irina Popescu is a UK-based novelist and story writer exploring the gothic, uncanny, and unsettling aspects of human experience. Their novel Iridescent made Top 100 of the Cheshire Novel Prize, and they are also co-founder Pen Pals, a creative network nurturing Leicester’s underrepresented literary talent.