‘I told you it’s not a sweetie. It’s not a sweetie.’
‘What?’
‘It’s not a sweetie, Flea. How many times do I have to tell you . . .’
Her eyes flew open. She was back in the barge. The last of the dream battered itself futilely against her eyes, Dad’s voice ringing around the echoey barge – it’s not a sweetie. She lay there in the darkness, her heart thudding crazily. Moonlight was coming through the two portholes in the hull. She checked the Citizen. Three hours since she’d crawled up here, aching and light-headed from exhaustion and blood loss. The T-shirt was wrapped tightly around the wound: it seemed to be holding back the blood for the time being, but what she’d already lost had done the damage. Her skin was clammy, her heart was having moments of jittery palpitations, as if she’d mainlined pure adrenalin. She’d dismantled the acrow prop from under the hatch and laid it across the shelf. Then she’d crawled between the acrow and the hull and, just as she could feel the blood loss pulling her under, had lain on her side, one arm stretched out, pinioned against the hull.
The acrow prop may have stopped her falling into the water in her unconscious state, but it was useless as a tool for getting her out of here. She’d struggled with it for hours though she knew, in her heart, it was never going to hoist the hatch open with the weight of the windlass on it. There had to be another way.
It’s not a sweetie, Flea . . .
She twisted her head to look at the hatch she’d come through. Behind her the barge slanted downwards, the water in the stern compartment nearly touching the roof. Not a sweetie. Acetylene – the gas the chunk of calcium carbide would produce if it was thrown into water – was slightly lighter than air. She pushed herself up on her elbows and considered how the water lay, then the underside of the deck with its cobwebs and rust. She turned her chin upwards and eyed the rope locker. There was a small hole rusted through it. She’d be wasting her time punching that open because the egress to the surface that the rope would have been fed through was tiny – she’d already had her light up there and studied it and it was the size of a fist. Even so the rope locker was making things stir in her head. Acetylene would rise to the top of a box like that. There’d be leakage into the hull but it might – might – not get under the lip above the hatch into the stern. If she was back there, behind the bulkhead. And if the gas was in here…
It was dangerous, it was insane, and it was the sort of thing Dad would have done without a second’s hesitation. With a grunt she levered the acrow off the ledge, let it fall into the water. She swung her legs down. Felt the exhausting, killing drain of blood away from her head into her torso, the stammer of her heart and blinding waves of static circling her skull. She had to sit, her eyes closed, breathing in a slow, concentrated rhythm until the barge stopped swaying around her.
When her heart had settled back to where it belonged she reached up and found the lump of calcium carbide in the rucksack. She’d almost peeled it from the carrier bag when a noise came from out in the tunnel. The familiar clink-clink-clink of a pebble falling down the air shaft. A splash in the water. She sat, head turned, mouth slightly open, her heart hammering again. Cautiously she returned the chemical ball to the rucksack. And then, almost as if whoever it was had crept up stealthily, she heard the grunt of the grille giving way to human weight and the splash of water. Two splashes. Three.
In absolute silence she tipped herself off the ledge into the water. Put her hand against the hull for support and inched her way slowly to the other side of the barge. Every now and then the faintness came buzzing back and she’d stand still, breathing hard and silently through her mouth, fighting to lock down the nauseating swaying sensation. Six inches from the hole she stopped, her back to the hull so she could see out. The tunnel looked empty. Moonlight streamed in. But on the far wall the rope was swaying. She held her breath. Listened.
A hand came through the hole, holding a torch. She shot back.
‘Flea?’
She got her balance. Breathing hard.
Prody? She fumbled the head torch from around her neck, put her hand around his in a fist and shoved it back through the hole, stepped forward and powered the beam into his face. He stood there, knee deep in the water, blinking at her. She let all the air out of her lungs at once.
‘I thought you were dead.’ Tears came to her eyes. She put a finger to her forehead. ‘Shit, Paul. I really thought he’d got you. I thought you were dead.’
‘Not dead. I’m here.’
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ A tear ran down her face. ‘Fuck, this is horrible.’ She pushed the tear away. ‘Paul – are they coming? I mean, seriously, I need to get out soon. I’ve lost a shitload of blood and it’s getting to the point . . .’ She paused. ‘What’s that?’
Prody was holding a large object, wrapped in a plastic sheet.
‘What? This?’
‘Yeah.’ She wiped her nose shakily. Swept the torch down to study it. It was a weird shape. ‘What’ve you got there?’
‘Nothing, really.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Really. Nothing much. I went to my garage.’ He unwrapped the plastic sheeting and laid it carefully on the bottom of the scree under the chain. Inside was an angle grinder. ‘I thought it might help get you out. Battery-operated.’
She stared at it. ‘Is that what they said to . . . ?’ She raised her eyes to his face. He was sweating. And the sweat didn’t look right. Long snail trails of it, like fingers, stained his shirt. The poisonous worms in her intestines moved and flicked again. He’d called the police, then gone all the way to his house to collect the angle grinder And the rescue services weren’t here yet? She shone the torch into his face. He looked back at her steadily, his teeth just visible through his slightly opened lips.
‘Where are the others?’ she murmured distantly.
‘The others? Oh – on their way.’
‘They let you come back on your own?’
‘Why not?’
She sniffed. ‘Paul?’
‘What?’
‘How did you know which air shaft to come down? There are twenty-three.’
‘Eh?’ He put his leg forward and rested the angle grinder on his thigh. Began to fit a disc to it. ‘I started at the west end and went down them all till I found you.’
‘No. I don’t think that’s right.’
‘Hm?’ He looked up mildly. ‘Beg pardon?’
‘No. There are nineteen shafts coming from that end. Your trousers were clean. When you came down they were clean.’
Prody lowered the angle grinder and gave her a quizzical smile. There was a long, still moment while they held each other’s gaze. Then, without a word, he went back to fitting the disc as if there had been no communication between them at all. He screwed down the disc and, after a few seconds, satisfied it was secure, he stood. Smiled at her again.
‘What?’ she whispered. ‘What?’
He turned and walked away, his body going forward, his head turning eerily back on his neck, so he could keep his eyes fixed on hers. Before she knew what was happening he had stepped out of her eyeline round the side of the barge. Instantly the tunnel dropped into silence.
She clicked off the torch, plunging herself into darkness. Heart racing, she took a couple of steps backwards, floundering around, wondering desperately what to do. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Prody? Her head balled up like a knot. Her legs turned into columns of sand, making her want to sit down and pant. Prody? Seriously – Prody?