Wake up in North Korea

I woke up with a splitting headache, the kind that drills right through your skull like a pneumatic hammer. My mouth tasted like I’d gargled rusty pennies, and for a moment, I thought I was still in that dive bar in Soho. But no, the mattress beneath me felt like a concrete slab, the air was damp and musty, and—what the actual bloody hell?—there was a portrait of some stern-faced bloke staring down at me from the wall. Not the Queen. Not even Charles. Just some bloke in a drab suit with a haircut you could set your watch to.

I sat up, blinking away the fog. The room was spartan. Scratch that, it was desperate. A rickety metal bedframe, a tiny table with a chipped enamel basin, and a window with bars. Oh, cheers, I thought, maybe I’d gone on a bender and ended up in a prison cell. Wouldn’t be the first time. But then I peeked out the window, and my stomach dropped like a lead balloon.

It wasn’t London. Or Manchester. Or anywhere in the bloody UK. Outside was a grey street, lined with grey buildings, under a sky that seemed to think colour was for losers. People shuffled by in identical clothes, heads down like they owed the pavement money. A massive banner with more of those stern-faced blokes fluttered overhead, and the writing on it was—well, it wasn’t English, that’s for damn sure. I’d seen enough dodgy documentaries to recognize Korean script when I saw it, though. And not the good kind. The kind that came with mandatory uniforms and propaganda marches.

I was in bloody North Korea. North. Fucking. Korea.

Right, so here’s the thing: how? How in the name of Saint Nigel of Wetherspoons did I get here? My last memory was a lads’ weekend in Bangkok—too much beer, too much curry, and one too many shots of whatever they pour out of a rusty jug at 3 a.m. Could I have been drugged? Kidnapped? Mistaken for someone important? Nah, that last bit didn’t track. I’m not important. I’m just Barry from Croydon.

Panic set in, the kind that makes your bowels do the Macarena. I checked my pockets—empty, except for a crumpled bus ticket with a bunch of squiggly writing on it. My phone? Gone. My wallet? Also gone. Fuck me sideways with a traffic cone.

The door creaked open, and in walked a bloke who looked like he’d been born in a military uniform. His expression was unreadable, like someone trying to figure out if you’re worth interrogating or just chucking in a ditch. “Good morning,” he said in English, though his accent could’ve cut glass. “You are awake.”

“Oh, brilliant observation, Sherlock,” I said, because sarcasm is my default setting when I’m scared shitless. His face didn’t change. Not even a flicker. Tough crowd.

“You are in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea,” he said, as if I might’ve confused it with Disneyland. “You were found at our border, unconscious.”

“Unconscious?” I echoed. “Mate, I was in Thailand yesterday. Thailand. You know, elephants and noodles, not—” I gestured wildly at the room. “Whatever this is.”

He tilted his head, studying me like I was an unusually dumb Labrador. “You do not know how you arrived?”

“Do I look like I know?” I snapped, instantly regretting it because, oh yeah, I’m in a dictatorship where you can get shot for looking at the wrong tree. “I mean… no. I don’t know.”

He nodded slowly, then turned and left the room without another word, leaving me alone with my spiralling thoughts. What the hell was I supposed to do? Call the embassy? Right, because I’m sure the British ambassador to North Korea would drop everything to rescue a random tosser like me. No, Barry, you’re on your own.

I spent the next hour pacing, chewing my fingernails, and trying not to cry like a big baby. Every now and then, I’d hear faint marching outside, like clockwork soldiers stomping through the streets. There was no telly, no books, nothing to distract me from the overwhelming sense of wrongness. The kind of wrongness that seeps into your bones and whispers, You’re never getting out of here, mate.

Eventually, the door opened again, and this time it was two soldiers. They motioned for me to follow, and because I didn’t fancy being shot, I complied. They led me through a maze of hallways and out into the street, where the sheer bleakness of the place hit me like a brick to the face. Everything was grey—the buildings, the sky, even the bloody trees looked like they’d given up on life. People shuffled past, glancing at me with a mix of curiosity and fear, like they couldn’t decide if I was a spy or just an idiot.

I tried to ask questions, but the soldiers ignored me. Eventually, they marched me into what looked like a government building and sat me down in front of another bloke in a suit. This one had a face like a funeral and an aura of authority that screamed, Do not fuck with me.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Barry,” I said. “From Croydon.”

His eyebrows twitched. “Why are you here?”

“Mate, if I knew, I wouldn’t be sitting here, would I?”

And that’s when it hit me. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe they thought I was a spy, or some kind of political dissident, or—God forbid—a journalist. And the terrifying thing was, I couldn’t even prove otherwise. My passport was gone, my story sounded like bollocks, and I was in a country where logic had clearly gone on permanent holiday.

As I sat there, sweating through my shirt and trying not to hyperventilate, one thought kept looping through my head like a broken record: Barry, you are so utterly, monumentally fucked.

The bloke in the suit—let’s call him Mr. Grim—leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table like he was about to deliver a death sentence over tea and biscuits. His expression didn’t so much as twitch, but his eyes, oh, they were doing the kind of slow, deliberate scanning you see when someone’s deciding if they should feed you to a pack of wild dogs or just straight-up execute you.

“Barry from Croydon,” he repeated, like the words tasted bad in his mouth. “We do not believe you.”

“Well, that makes two of us, doesn’t it?” I shot back before my brain could slap my mouth into silence. His eyes narrowed, and I immediately regretted my life choices. Bloody hell, Barry, stop digging the hole you’re standing in.

Mr. Grim snapped his fingers, and one of the soldiers behind me stepped forward. Big guy. Shoulders like a brick wall and a face that looked like it had been set to ‘permanent scowl’ since birth. He slammed something onto the table—a piece of paper and a pen.

“Write,” Mr. Grim said.

“Write what?” I asked, staring at the pen like it might bite me.

“Your confession.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Confession? About what? My only crime was existing, and even that felt like it was up for debate right now. “Look,” I said, trying to sound calm but probably coming off as a hysterical muppet, “I don’t even know how I got here. There’s nothing to confess! I’m just a bloke who got absolutely plastered in Bangkok and woke up in your delightful dystopia.”

“Write,” he repeated, his voice like ice cracking. The soldier behind me shifted, and I felt the cold sting of dread crawling up my spine. Yeah, they weren’t messing about. I could either write something or find out what “enhanced interrogation” felt like.

So, I picked up the pen. My hand was shaking so badly it looked like I was trying to invent a new form of abstract art. “Alright,” I said, stalling for time. “What do you want me to confess to? Espionage? Being an idiot abroad? Breathing too loud?”

Mr. Grim didn’t answer. He just stared at me like a particularly disappointing dog. Fine. Fine. I’d write something. But if they were expecting Shakespeare, they were going to be sorely disappointed.

Dear Whoever the Hell Reads This,

I, Barry from Croydon, do solemnly swear that I have absolutely no bloody idea what’s going on. I did not come here on purpose. I have no interest in your government, your secrets, or whatever you think I’m here for. My only mission in life is to drink pints, watch the footie, and maybe, just maybe, not die in a North Korean interrogation room.

P.S. This is the worst holiday I’ve ever been on.

I slid the paper across the table and leaned back, crossing my arms like I’d just written the Magna Carta. Mr. Grim picked it up, his eyes flicking across the page with the kind of disdain reserved for finding a turd on your shoe. He placed it down, folded his hands, and stared at me in silence.

“What?” I asked after about thirty seconds of the world’s most awkward staring contest. “Not good enough? Want me to add some emojis?”

“You think this is a joke,” he said, his tone flatter than week-old lager.

“No,” I said quickly, because nope nope nope, we are not doubling down on the sarcasm, Barry. “I just—I’m telling the truth. I don’t know why I’m here.”

Mr. Grim didn’t respond. Instead, he nodded to the soldiers, who grabbed me by the arms and hauled me out of the room like a sack of potatoes. “Oi! OI! Where are we going?!” I shouted, struggling uselessly against their iron grips. They didn’t answer, of course. They just dragged me down a series of dimly lit corridors until we reached another door. This one was reinforced steel, the kind you’d see in a horror movie where bad things happen.

The door opened, and they shoved me inside. I stumbled, catching myself on the cold, damp floor. When I looked up, my heart sank. The room was empty except for a single chair in the middle, bolted to the floor. Above it hung a bare lightbulb, flickering ominously like it had a grudge against humanity.

“Oh, this is cozy,” I muttered, trying to keep my panic at bay. “What’s next? Waterboarding? Electrodes? A stern lecture?”

The soldiers left without a word, the door clanging shut behind them. And then I was alone. Alone in a room that practically screamed, This is where bad shit happens.

I sat down in the chair, mostly because standing felt like an invitation to collapse into a puddle of terror. My mind was racing, my thoughts bouncing around like a pinball machine. How the hell was I going to get out of this? What if they decided I was a spy? What if they never let me go? What if—

The door opened again, and in walked a young woman carrying a tray. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, her face pale and her expression guarded. She placed the tray on the floor in front of me—rice, some pickled vegetables, and a tin cup of water—then backed away without a word.

“Wait,” I said, my voice cracking. “Please. Can you help me?”

Her eyes flicked to the door, then back to me. She didn’t say anything, but as she turned to leave, she slipped a folded piece of paper onto the tray.

I waited until she was gone, then snatched up the note with shaking hands. Unfolding it, I read the words written in careful, shaky English:

Do not trust anyone. We are watching. Stay quiet. Help will come.

Well, that was bloody reassuring.

The note trembled in my hand like it had a pulse of its own. I read it again, my mind doing somersaults. We are watching. Stay quiet. Help will come. Help? From who? MI6? The Avengers? Barry from Croydon was nobody’s idea of a secret agent. And as for staying quiet—well, let’s just say I’ve never been great at keeping my gob shut.

The food on the tray looked about as appealing as a wet sock, but hunger was gnawing at my stomach like a starving ferret, so I forced it down. The rice was cold, the vegetables sour, and the water tasted faintly of rust, but it was better than nothing. I pocketed the note, just in case someone decided to pop in for a random cavity search.

Minutes dragged into what felt like hours. The lightbulb buzzed overhead, a constant, maddening whine that made me want to rip it out of the ceiling. My brain couldn’t settle, darting between questions like a squirrel on speed. Who left the note? How did they know English? And more importantly, who the hell was I supposed to not trust when literally everyone I’d met so far seemed like they were auditioning for the role of Bond villain?

The door opened again, and in walked Mr. Grim, his expression still as cheerful as a funeral. Behind him were two new soldiers, both of them looking like they could snap me in half without breaking a sweat. Grim didn’t sit. He just loomed, arms crossed, while his goons flanked me on either side.

“You will answer our questions truthfully,” he said, his voice sharp enough to shave with. “If you lie, there will be consequences.”

“Oh, consequences,” I said, before I could stop myself. “Lovely. Do I at least get a menu of options? You know, slap across the face, public shaming, or straight to gulag?”

The soldier to my left stepped forward and smacked me across the back of the head, hard enough to make my vision wobble. “Okay, noted,” I muttered, rubbing the spot. “Sarcasm: bad idea.”

Grim leaned in, his cold breath wafting over me like a draft from an open morgue. “How did you cross our border?”

“I told you, I don’t know!” I snapped, my frustration boiling over. “One minute I’m in Thailand, the next I’m here! Maybe I got kidnapped, maybe someone slipped something in my drink—I don’t bloody know! You think I wanted to wake up in your Orwellian nightmare? News flash: I didn’t.”

Grim’s eyes narrowed. He turned to one of the soldiers and barked something in Korean. The man nodded and disappeared out the door, leaving me with Grim and his remaining lackey. The air in the room felt like it had been sucked out, replaced with tension so thick you could cut it with a butter knife.

“Do you know what we do to spies?” Grim asked, his voice low and menacing.

“Oh, let me guess,” I said, my fear kicking my sense of self-preservation in the bollocks. “Something creative with bamboo shoots? Or maybe you’re more of a nails-under-the-fingernails kind of operation?”

Grim’s lips curled into a humorless smile. “We make them disappear.”

“Brilliant,” I said, my voice shaking now. “Do I at least get a last meal? Maybe a pint? A packet of crisps?”

The door opened again, and the other soldier returned, carrying a small, familiar object. My heart stopped. It was my passport. The soldier placed it on the table in front of Grim, who flipped it open and studied it like it held the secrets of the universe.

“Barry… from Croydon,” he said, his tone dripping with disdain. “Is this real?”

“Yes, it’s real!” I said, my voice cracking. “You think I’d forge a passport just to come here? No offense, but North Korea isn’t exactly top of anyone’s bucket list.”

Grim didn’t look convinced. He slid the passport across the table, and one of the soldiers grabbed it. “We will verify this. If it is fake…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. His icy glare did all the talking.

The soldiers hauled me to my feet again and dragged me back to my room. The door slammed shut, and I collapsed onto the bed, my whole body trembling. I’d been here less than a day, and I already felt like I was teetering on the edge of a very sharp knife. One wrong move, one wrong word, and I’d be toast.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the note again, reading it for the hundredth time. Do not trust anyone. We are watching. Stay quiet. Help will come.

Help. It was such a small, fragile word, and right now, it felt about as sturdy as a paper umbrella in a hurricane. But it was all I had. Whoever left the note knew something I didn’t. Maybe they were my way out. Or maybe it was a trap. Either way, staying quiet was my best bet for now.

I stuffed the note back into my pocket, leaned against the cold wall, and stared at the barred window. The sky outside was still grey, oppressive, and unrelenting. Somewhere in the distance, a loudspeaker blared patriotic music, the kind that made your skin crawl.

I didn’t know who was coming to help, or when, or how. But I knew one thing for certain: if I didn’t keep my wits about me, Barry from Croydon was going to disappear in North Korea, and no one back home would ever know what the fuck happened to me.

The next day—or at least I think it was the next day; time felt like it was moving in circles—things went from bad to oh-fuck-me-this-is-the-end. It started with the clanging of the door, sharp and angry, like the building itself was pissed off. Two soldiers barged in, grabbing me before I could even mumble a half-hearted “good morning.”

“Oi! Easy!” I protested as they hauled me out. “I’m fragile, alright? Like a bloody artisan croissant!”

They didn’t respond. They never responded. I was dragged through the same corridors, past the same grim walls, until we reached a new room. This one was worse. Much worse.

It was a bleak little chamber, all metal and shadows, with a chair that had restraints bolted to the arms. There was a table to the side, littered with instruments that looked like they’d been borrowed from the set of a horror film—pliers, clamps, something that might’ve been a car battery. My stomach churned, and sweat broke out across my forehead.

“Right,” I muttered to myself as they shoved me into the chair. “This is it. Barry’s last stand. Strap in, mate. Literally.”

They did strap me in. The cuffs bit into my wrists and ankles, cold and unyielding. The soldiers left without a word, leaving me alone with my thoughts. And oh, weren’t they just delightful? Visions of torture, interrogation, and a shallow grave in some unmarked field paraded through my head.

Minutes later, the door opened again, and in walked Mr. Grim, flanked by two new goons. One of them was carrying a folder. My folder. My bloody life. They’d managed to dig up more on me than I thought possible. My heart sank as the goon opened the folder and spread its contents across the table: photocopies of my passport, photos of me on holiday in Ibiza (looking like a sunburned twat), and a receipt from that dodgy kebab place in Croydon. How the fuck did they get that?

“Barry,” Grim said, dragging my name out like he was tasting something sour. “Your story is inconsistent.”

“Inconsistent?” I croaked, my mouth suddenly dry. “What story? I told you everything. I woke up here with no bloody clue how or why.”

“Then explain this.” He slid a grainy black-and-white photo across the table. It showed… me. At least, it looked like me. Same scruffy hair, same build, same gobsmacked expression. But the guy in the photo was standing next to a military vehicle, surrounded by men in uniforms I didn’t recognize.

“What the—?” I stammered, staring at the photo like it might bite me. “That’s not me!”

“You deny it?” Grim’s voice was ice cold, his eyes boring into me like he was trying to peel back my skin.

“Yes, I deny it!” I shouted. “That’s not me! I don’t know where that photo came from, but it’s bollocks!”

Grim didn’t flinch. He just nodded to one of his goons, who stepped forward with a syringe in hand. Oh, brilliant. Inject me with something mysterious. That’s just what my day needed.

“Wait! Wait!” I screamed, thrashing against the restraints as the goon approached. “You’ve got the wrong bloke! I’m not a spy! I’m just a fucking idiot who got lost!”

The needle jabbed into my arm, sharp and unforgiving. A cold sensation spread through my veins, and within seconds, my vision started to blur. My head lolled to the side as a strange, heavy fog settled over my mind.

Grim’s voice cut through the haze, low and menacing. “You will tell us everything, Barry. And if you lie, we will know.”

When I came to, I was back in my dingy little room, but something was different. My head was pounding, my body felt like it had been put through a washing machine, and my wrists were raw from where I’d struggled against the cuffs. The note in my pocket was gone.

Shit.

Whoever had slipped me that lifeline was either dead or terrified now. My one thread of hope, snatched away by these bastards. I sat up, groaning, and noticed a plate of food on the table—rice again, this time with some unidentifiable meat. I wasn’t sure if I was more scared of eating it or starving. My stomach made the decision for me.

As I forced down the meal, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. Not just watched—studied. The kind of scrutiny that makes your skin crawl, like someone’s peering into your soul and judging you unworthy.

That night, the lights in the corridor outside my room didn’t turn off. The sound of boots echoed constantly, a reminder that even in the dead of night, this place never really slept. I lay on the stiff mattress, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing.

Who was in that photo? Was it a setup? Some kind of deepfake? Or was I losing my mind? And why did they bother putting me back in the room instead of finishing me off?

The answer came two days later, when the door burst open and two soldiers entered, dragging in someone else—a girl, no older than twenty-five, her face pale and terrified. She was the one who’d slipped me the note.

“Wait!” I shouted, standing up as they shoved her to the ground. “She didn’t do anything! Leave her alone!”

Grim appeared in the doorway, his expression colder than ever. “Do you know this woman?” he asked, his voice a blade.

“No!” I lied, my voice trembling. “I’ve never seen her before in my life!”

Grim smirked, a slow, cruel thing. “Lies.”

He barked an order, and the soldiers grabbed her, dragging her out of the room despite her desperate screams.

I lunged forward, but one of the soldiers slammed me back into the wall with a meaty hand. “Don’t! Please! She didn’t do anything!” I shouted, my voice breaking.

Grim leaned in, his face inches from mine. “You are running out of chances, Barry from Croydon. Choose your next words carefully.”

And then they left, slamming the door behind them. The silence that followed was deafening, heavy with guilt and fear. Whoever she was, she’d tried to help me, and now she was probably being dragged to some hellhole because of it.

I sank to the floor, my chest heaving, my mind screaming at me to do something. But what? I was a nobody. Just Barry from Croydon, stuck in the world’s worst nightmare, with no idea how to get out.

And the worst part? I wasn’t sure I ever would.