Stopper had tiptoed down to him, hand-over-hand on the guard rail, and helped him upright. Together they shouldered into the wind, angling towards the block that contained the Offshore Installation Manager’s office. Bodies were piled up at the threshold of the door. He could feel the panic creeping through him like cold. He felt he must keep moving or it would consume him. Jane led the way inside, hoping that Stopper would give the dead as short shrift as he had. There were more bodies ranged across the corridors and internal stairs. In a canteen, one man sat hunched over a half-eaten sandwich, his cheeks ballooning, his stomach hanging like a Portuguese man-o’-war from his lips.
Jane could hear his breathing quicken through the regulator. He tried to calm himself by thinking how ridiculous he must look in his diving gear. Some of the toolpushers and roustabouts would pull a muscle if they could see him and Stopper now. Gas leak, he was thinking. Cyanide? Hydrogen sulphide? Could that change the colour of the sky?
He slowed as he neared the OIM’s office. The control room next to it was utterly still and dark; the windows were packed black with debris. Ricky Melling, the Dynamic Positioning Operator, was slumped over a desk, a welter of his blood dried to glaze like a slab of treacle toffee waiting for the hammer. The swelling of his body had split his jacket up the back seam, the jacket he’d described once as a bit roomy since he’d come off the sauce and started grilling his chicken and chops.
Though everything was dark, Jane tried the lights, the TV, the radios. No response. Wind was getting into this module somewhere; he could hear it howling and rattling around the prefabricated units. It was a wonder they all hadn’t been torn off their housings. He was about to leave the control room and move further into the building, to the recreation room, when he saw Eamonn Tate, the OIM, sitting against the wall, his hands in his lap. He seemed to be staring down at them, or perhaps at the pale grey slack of his tongue as it lolled against his chest. Though Jane had been expecting this, to actually see the guy in charge, a guy who was as serene and quiet-talking as they come, broken and bent and capsized, was almost too much to take. Jane crouched down next to him and thought about taking his pulse, but shook his head. No survivors. Just Jane and Stopper. He was turning to tell Stopper this, but he realised he would have to take out the regulator to do so. Stopper wasn’t ready for the news anyway, by the look on his face. To confirm what he was already seeing was to invite his utter dislocation.
Jane clapped Stopper on the shoulder and gestured to the door. Stopper followed him. Jane lowered his head against the wind as he edged outside and led the way to the lower decks and the bright orange lifeboats. Jane checked behind him when he was shooting open the bolts on the entrance hatch. Stopper was standing loose, head back, watching the queasy swirl of the sky. He appeared deflated, a bottle of something unstoppered, flat. Now Jane wished he could say something. If Stopper didn’t keep his mind on what was happening, a rogue gust was going to pick him up and toss him a couple of hundred feet into freezing water. Jane made a grunting noise around his mouthpiece, waved his arms: Stopper slowly levelled his gaze back on his buddy, but Jane doubted it had anything to do with his pleas for attention. Stopper’s eyes were wide open but unseeing. Clouds had formed, despite the wind, pinguid and low, like something thick in a mixing bowl, streaked with the colours of decay. The secret colours he had only ever heard mentioned by his mother and her sisters: taupe, mauve, teal. The clouds sweated greasy rain.
Jane bundled Stopper into the lifeboat and swung the hatch shut. He pressed his fingers against Stopper’s regulator to prevent him from spitting it clear, waiting to see if any of the granularity of the sky had followed them inside. What there was settled quickly without the wind to propel it. It settled like a weird matte glitter on their clothes, twinkling dully. Scintillas of quartz, Jane thought. Obsidian. Asbestos. He plucked the regulator out and drew a breath.
‘Normal service has been resumed,’ he said, trying a smile. Stopper blinked at him. Jane gently tugged free Stopper’s mouthpiece; a glut of drool followed it out. The other man didn’t protest but regarded him slackly, as if every muscle in his face had been injected with relaxant.
‘Buckle up, Stop,’ Jane said. In the end, he had to do it for him, pulling the straps tight over flesh that felt deboned, as yielding as a baby’s.
Jane secured his own restraints and took a few fast shallow breaths. He hated fairground rides, and the times he’d rehearsed lifeboat drops had left him on the brink of vomiting. There was a lurch, but not his guts, not yet: the oil platform. Something had given way, most likely the leg they had been trying to reinforce. He peered through the hatch and saw the deck of the oil platform tilting towards the sea as the supports folded beneath it. Then a hard jolt and the tilt was halted. Jane reached out and hit the release button, but nothing happened. He punched it again and again. No reaction. It would need to be released manually, from the outside.
He unbuckled his harness and went to the porthole. ‘Maybe the sea will wrench us clear,’ he said, ‘when the platform gives way.’
He looked back at Stopper, who had freed himself and was spinning the wheel of the hatch.
‘What are you doing?’
Stopper stopped and slowly turned around as if addressing a fool. ‘Uncoupling the boat,’ he said.
‘But it needs to be done on deck.’
Stopper gestured at the hatch. ‘I know.’
‘But…’ Jane had been about to say you’ll die and had to stop himself. Stopper was in shock. He wasn’t thinking straight.
‘I know,’ said Stopper. ‘I’m not going with you. I’ll set you free.’
‘What do you fucking mean, you’re not going? We’re a team. I’m taking you off this platform. Now sit down and buckle up, or I swear’ – he unsheathed the fire extinguisher from the wall – ‘I’ll deck you stone cold with this cunt.’
He turned back to the window. What bothered him most about Stopper’s act of bravery wasn’t that his friend would die but that Jane would be left alone. He wasn’t sure he could face that, especially with the electrics on the boat shot, relying on the violence of the waves to take them to shore. They hadn’t discussed the madness of this, but they had gravitated to the boats because that was what happened in an emergency. It was their only way off the platform, the only hope for survival. At some point there’d be a rescue attempt. Better to be warm and dry in an eye-catching orange capsule than a corpse pinned to the seabed by a thousand tons of steel. Better to…
He felt a spray of something hot against his cheek, and Stopper was saying, ‘OK, so can I go now?’
There was other stuff in the First Aid box. Chocolate, Kendal Mint Cake, a vacuum-sealed pack of raisins. Water. Jane eyed the bandages and plasters and dressings. None of them any use. He was sitting hunched in his seat, surrounded by a slurry of vomit. He had emptied his bowels too, unable to control himself through a fit of retching that he’d thought might turn him inside out. There was a lot of blood sprayed across the walls, a scary amount, given that Stopper had taken just a few seconds to turn the hatch wheel and duck out into the wind. Then the thunk of locking pins being hammered free and the drop into the ocean that he could not now recall, despite his fear of it. The scissors from the First Aid box were rattling around the floor, sticky with the blood that Stopper had cut out of his body. His severed artery had hung like the ragged end of a rubber hose in the exposed meat of his forearm.