towns. Birmingham. Glasgow. York. Jane wanted to hear about Cheltenham but the news channels were running the same images over and over. Some kind of bloody plague was sweeping through the cities. Was it a bio-weapon? A spontaneous mutation? Nobody knew. Most of the footage was shaky phone clips mailed by viewers. Armed police suppressed supermarket riots. Gangs fortified tower blocks against intruders, declared them a city state. The Prime Minister called for courage, called on God. Studio pundits discussed Ebola, AIDS, haemorrhagic fever.
Jane joined Punch in the canteen kitchen and helped grate cheese. A steel room. Counters, fryers, dishwashers and mixers. Smell of fresh bread.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Punch.
‘Okay,’ said Jane.
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Not really.’
‘All fucked up.’
‘The TV? I’ve seen snatches these past few days. I’ve been trying not to think about it.’
‘My mother lives in Cardiff,’ said Punch.
‘The centre?’
‘Riverside.’
They had glimpsed images of Cardiff on the news. Part of the town centre was burning. A department store caught alight and the fire spread building to building. Black smoke over the city rooftops. A church spire crumbled in a cascade of rubble dust. There were no fire crews left to respond.
‘She’ll be fine,’ said Jane. ‘People know what to do in this kind of situation. Fill the larder, lock the front door and stay out of trouble.’
‘I should be there.’
‘Three days to Narvik. Four hours to Birmingham International.’
‘Then what? Doesn’t exactly look like the trains are running.’
‘Steal a bike. Hitch a ride. You’ll find a way.’
‘Do you have a family?’ he asked.
‘My mother and sister live in Bristol.’
‘Do you think they are okay?’
‘You saw that riot on TV. Things are getting tooth and claw. My dad is long gone. They have no one to fight for them.’
‘Come to Cardiff. We have a spare room.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Seriously. We are going to touch down in a war zone. You’ll need somewhere to go.’
Punch lived in a storeroom at the back of the kitchen. He dragged a couple of kit-bags from beneath his bunk and began to pack. Jane sat on a chair in the corner and sipped black coffee.
Clothes on the floor. Jeans so narrow Jane wouldn’t be able to pull them past her ankles.
‘It seems a bit premature,’ said Punch. He stripped out of chef’s whites and a blue apron. ‘I’ll probably have to unpack half this stuff during the week. But I just want to be gone.’
‘You like comics?’ asked Jane. Posters of Batgirl, Ghost Rider, Spawn.
‘That’s why I’m here. Six months, no distractions. I was going to draw my masterpiece. Blast my way to the big-time. Brought my inks. Brought my board.’
‘No joy?’
‘I pissed away the time. Thing is, what does a hero look like these days? Muscles and Lycra? Life isn’t a contest of strength any more. Jobs, banks, taxes. Boring social reality. You can’t solve anything with a fist. Those years are long gone.’
‘Don’t feel bad. Pretty much everyone on this platform is in a holding pattern.’
‘Sure you’re okay?’
‘I may switch rooms later. All that despair. The smell hangs around like cigarette smoke.’
Jane picked a new room and unpacked her stuff. The room was identical to the last but it still felt like a change. She flushed her remaining painkillers. She had psyched herself for suicide, but the moment for action had passed.
She sat on the bed. Her life was one lonely room after another.
A double beep from the wall speaker in the corridor outside. A Tannoy announcement broadcast throughout the refinery, echoing down empty passageways, gently stirring motes of dust in distant rooms.
‘Reverend Blanc, please come to the manager’s office right away’
Rawlins’s office was at the top of the administration block. A wide, Plexiglas window gave him a view of the upper deck of the refinery. A vast scaffold city of gantries, girders and distillation tanks lit by a low Arctic sun.
Rawlins ran the installation from his desk. A wall panel showed a plan of the rig dotted with green System OK lights.
Submerged cameras monitored the seabed pipeline, a concrete manifold anchored to the ocean bed.
He sat by the radio. Speakers relayed the hiss and whistle of atmospheric interference.
Jane pulled up a chair.
‘Nothing from the mainland?’
‘Comes and goes,’ said Rawlins. ‘I get snatches of music. The occasional ghost voice. Hear that?’
A man, faint and desperate: ‘Gelieve te helpen ons. Daar iedereen is? Kan iedereen me horen? Gelieve te helpen ons.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Jane. ‘Swedish? Norwegian?’
‘God knows. Some poor bastard. He’s out there, somewhere, calling for help. I can hear him, but he can’t hear us.’
‘This is starting to scare the crap out of me.’
‘Look at this,’ said Rawlins. He re-angled his desk screen. ‘I managed to pull this from the BBC News site a couple of weeks ago.’
He clicked Play.
Police marksmen creeping through a supermarket. Footage shot low to the ground. A reporter crouched behind a checkout.
‘…suddenly attacked paramedics and fled the scene. She seems to have taken refuge at the back of the store. Police have cleared the building and are moving in..!
Something glimpsed between the aisles. A figure, creeping, feral.
‘There she is..!’
Sudden close-up. A woman’s snarling face masked in blood.
Police: ‘Put your hands up. Keep your hands where we can see them..!’
She lunges. Gunfire. Her chest is ripped open and she is hurled backward into a shelf of coffee jars.
She’s still moving. A marksman plants a boot on her chest, cocks his pistol and shoots her in the face.
Rewind. Freeze frame. That bloody, snarling face.
‘What the fuck?’ said Jane.
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ said Rawlins. ‘Not here, though. Outside.’ He threw Jane an XXXL parka. ‘Let’s take a walk.’
They descended metal steps that spiralled round one of the rig’s four great floatation legs.
Winter was coming. Ice had begun to collect around the refinery legs. Soon Rampart would be sitting on a solid raft of ice. As the days drew short and the temperature dropped further, the sea would freeze and the rig would be joined to the island by an ice-bridge.
Rawlins walked out on to the ice. Jane stayed on the steps. She inspected the vast underbelly of the rig. Acres of frosted pipework and joists.
‘So what do you want from me?’ asked Jane. She had been aboard the refinery for five months. This was the first time Rawlins had asked to speak to her.
‘The microwave link to shore. I was hoping you could draw up a schedule, help the lads book phone time.’
‘Reckon they can reach anyone?’
‘That’s what I’m saying. Navtex is down. Our sat phone is a fucking paperweight. The guys will demand to
