Coldbrook

ministrations, but she could never feel angry at him. Not after what he had done. He was a young guy devoted to a young woman in an old woman’s body, a woman who could sometimes barely walk, who could well be dead in the next few years. Every morning she woke up and wished for death, and Tommy was there to save her life.

‘Thought we could go down to the park later,’ he said, working his thumbs across her hip bones as his fingers pressed beneath. ‘Picnic, couple of books, bottle of wine.’

‘Feeling all horny now you’ve spent half an hour touching me up?’

‘Always horny,’ Tommy said.

Jayne frowned as he worked harder around her hips, but as his hands moved on the pain was lessening to a background glow, and movement returned. It was as if he brought her back to the world every morning, and sometimes she laughed at people’s perception of their relationship. Everyone saw Jayne as the strong one — the sufferer, the fighter — but Tommy was the rock to which she clung.

‘Park sounds good,’ she said.

He sat back on his haunches and she saw the beads of sweat on his brow. He swept his long hair back from his face, blinking faster, and she knew he wanted to get finished.

‘I’ll do my shoulders,’ she said.

‘Sure?’ He pretended to be hurt, but she could read him so well. He never complained, but that didn’t mean that he enjoyed this morning ritual. She could hardly blame him. And she saw, and understood the need. He was her addiction.

‘Sure.’ She reached up with her left hand and started massaging her right shoulder, biting back a gasp at the pain it caused her. No one could tell her why the churu affected muscles around joints more than anywhere else. One of the more honest consultants had said that it was such a rare disease. Certainly no one really knew much about it, and no one was willing to spend the money to research it. He’d finished with, If what you’re doing works for you, keep doing it.

Well, fuck them.

‘Okay,’ Tommy said, standing beside the bed, stretching, watching her, when all he really wanted right then was to go out into the small kitchen. ‘Well, I’ll have a smoke, then.’

‘Okay. Thanks, babe.’

‘Don’t call me babe.’ He delivered the familiar line with the usual sternness, then breezed through to their kitchen. Moments later Jayne heard the scratch of a match and Tommy’s satisfied sigh, and soon after that the first whiff of pot hit her. He’s started rolling them ready the night before and he’ll have two before we leave the apartment, she thought. But she couldn’t judge him. It was only pot.

She worked at her shoulders, left and right, and soon she would be able to rise, shower and dress. Sunday was her favourite day.

2

It was vital that Jonah should alert the surface about what was happening. He was berating himself for not having done so sooner. Those afflicted — or infected, which was how he was viewing them now — were secure down here with Coldbrook closed down, but the news must be broken.

The project’s influence spread across the globe. Two thick tentacles reached out to the US and UK governments, their funding for Coldbrook hidden away through complex paths of finance and banking, two-decade- old signatures on yellowing sheets of paper in files in locked storerooms, and his call would reach those countries’ security agencies in a matter of minutes. And then there were links that were less substantial finance-wise though perhaps stronger in their commitment. These led to private individuals and organisations, ranging from billionaire entrepreneurs who gifted their money to fund their appetite for amazing things to oil barons and shareholding companies with high-risk portfolios, their real object hidden from bond holders by an almost insanely intricate web of investments.

Jonah’s call would cause a huge splash, and that splash would make waves. By the time he hung up, people across the world would be woken, called out of meetings or interrupted on their yachting holidays to be told that Coldbrook’s recent astounding success had been followed by catastrophic failure. Jonah knew of the safeguards in place down here because he had insisted on many of them himself. But he had no idea what measures had been set up beyond these walls and a thousand miles away. His call might piss off investors or start an avalanche of military intervention, and he would have influence over neither outcome.

I’m going to die and stay down here for ever, he thought. But, right now, for ever did not concern him unduly.

Satphone in hand, he swivelled in his chair and briefly examined the schematic on the wall behind him. Yellow lights indicated where internal lockdown measures had taken place, and the light over Control’s door was blinking. Failure. But Satpal’s escape was no longer important. What was important were the red lights, showing Coldbrook’s outer containment. All remained steady but one: a ventilation duct.

That one also blinked.

Jonah stood up from his chair and walked closer. His eyes weren’t what they used to be and perhaps they were watering, causing the image to flicker. But no: the light was flashing. He tapped the vent reference code into his laptop and read the information presented there. All three dampers had been closed and their mechanisms destroyed, as expected.

‘Malfunction,’ he muttered looking back at the light. ‘Melting caused a short. Has to be.’ But he had not seen Vic Pearson on any screen, in any room, dead or alive — or walking the line between.

‘Vic, I hope you haven’t done something stupid,’ Jonah said, and he dialled Coldbrook’s above-ground administration and guard block. The call rang several times before it was answered.

‘Asleep on the job?’ Jonah asked as soon as he heard the click of connection.

‘Not at all, no,’ a voice said, flustered. ‘Who is this?’

‘Jonah Jones. Is that Rick Summerfield?’

‘Yes, professor. Er. . it’s early.’ Jonah felt a shred of relief. Summerfield was a manager rather than a scientist, but he and Jonah had always seen eye to eye, and he possessed that spark of imagination and wonder that made him a true part of Coldbrook like many others. He saw not just an experiment but something more meaningful. Jonah closed his eyes.

‘You haven’t seen that we’re in lockdown?’ he asked.

‘What? Why? There’s nothing. . hold on.’ Jonah heard keyboard keys being tapped and the rustle of Summerfield pulling on headphones. ‘We’re showing nothing. All boards clear up here.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Jonah said. He knew that the small surface compound — four buildings, a car park and a perimeter fence — was linked into Coldbrook’s network, but something must have gone wrong. He didn’t know how recently the systems up there had been checked, and the ongoing endless modernisation of the facility’s IT equipment often favoured the subterranean area where the real work was done.

Unsettled, Jonah watched the three flashing LEDs as he continued. ‘Rick, something came through.’

‘What something?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Patch in to email and I’ll send you what you need to see. But. . we have to sound the alarm. You have the protocols, a list of who to contact.’

‘Yes, I have it here. But the breach was stable! Everyone’s probably still celebrating, Jonah.’

‘Something came through. People are dead. Maybe everyone.’ There was no response to this, only a shocked gasp. ‘Except. . before you do that, I need you to check the ventilation-duct housing on the services block.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t find Vic Pearson. I’m afraid he might have made a break for it.’

‘It’s fine,’ Summerfield said. ‘I can see the cover from here, it’s intact, and Vic wouldn’t-’

‘Will you just check the bastard for me!’ Jonah said, anger creeping into his voice. It was shock and grief that were causing it and he reined it in. ‘Sorry, Rick. Please check. For this old Welshman.’

‘Okay, hold on.’ He heard mumbling in the background as Summerfield used a walkie-talkie, then he was back online. ‘Moore’s going to look right now.’

‘It’s a contagion,’ Jonah said. ‘Something I’ve never seen before. Never imagined. I’ll send the info but access