thing.’
‘What does it look like?’
‘It’s a red sheet of paper.’
Jane leafed through files.
‘Yeah, baby,’ said Ghost, triumphantly waving a red laminated checklist.
She glimpsed DANGER in big letters at the top of the page.
‘What the hell is that?’
Ghost didn’t reply. He spun his chair across the room to the console, kicking box files aside.
The pump room windows had shattered when the demolitions charges blew. Ghost wiped snow and broken glass from the screens and consoles. He cranked isolator breakers to On. The pump consoles lit up and winked expectant green.
He jabbed the main touch-screen plan of the refinery and set each system flag from Off to amber Standby.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘The treaters are back on-line. The super-heaters. The draw-pumps. Did you find the box?’
‘Yeah.’
‘There should be two keys inside.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And an envelope.’
Jane read out authorisation codes. Ghost typed. The screen in front of him flashed red.
The final code was Rawlins’s employee number. Only he had sufficient high-level access to stop or re-start the refining process.
Jane read his employee number from an old payslip.
FAILSAFE WARNING DO YOU WISH TO CONTINUE? YES/NO
Ghost slotted keys into the main console.
‘We need to turn both keys at the same time.’
‘Are we launching a missile?’ asked Jane.
‘Remember Chernobyl? A couple of bored technicians nearly incinerated Europe. This is the biggest Merox treater in the world, give or take. Press the wrong button and we could pollute the entire western hemisphere.’
They turned the keys.
The screen began a ten-minute countdown.
‘Why the countdown?’ asked Jane.
‘Because we are asking the refinery to do something epically stupid and it wants us to reconsider.’
Punch woke. He struggled to open his eyes. A cut in his forehead. Lashes glued shut by clotted blood.
Punch was bound hand and foot. His arms were tied behind his back by nylon cord. The cord cut his wrists like wire. He twisted his hands to restore circulation.
He lay on the floor of a bare room. The strip-light flickered. The walls were concrete. The ceiling was concrete. The floor was cold, green tiles. He guessed he was in the bunker.
He tried to roll. He tried to wriggle his hands free. He felt blood trickle into his palms.
The door opened. Small snowboots. Blue Ventile trousers. He lashed out with his legs. Someone kicked him in the face. He spat blood. He looked up. Nikki stood over him. She crouched and checked his cuffs.
‘Where am I?’
‘Where do you think you are?’ asked Nikki, calm and pleasant.
‘What the fuck is going on? Are you going to let me go, or what?’
‘An exchange,’ said Nikki. ‘I’m going to trade you for food and fuel.’
‘Food for what? Where are you heading?’
‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that.’
‘Where’s your boyfriend? Where’s Nail?’
‘He’s around.’
‘Cut me loose.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Go fuck yourself, Nikki.’
‘You want to get out of here, don’t you?’
‘You’re lying. Food and fuel. Bullshit. I don’t know what you are planning, but it’s not going to work.’
‘Jane will need proof of life. Tell me something only Sian would know.’
‘Help me up.’
‘No.’
‘Come on. I need a shit.’
‘So shit.’
‘I’m bleeding.’
‘So bleed.’
‘Go fuck yourself, Nikki. Seriously.’
Nikki left. The heavy door slammed. A key turned in a lock. Footsteps diminished down a passageway.
Punch squirmed across the floor to the wall. He tried to stand. Maybe he could ambush Nikki next time she walked through the door. Knock her out with a vicious headbutt. Get her on the floor and kneel on her throat. She would almost certainly have a knife in her pocket. He could free himself, and find his way back to Rampart.
He lost balance. He toppled to the floor. He hit his head and shoulder. He lay and stared at the wall. He felt hopeless and defeated.
Nikki returned an hour later. She crouched beside him. Punch didn’t look up.
Proof of Life
‘My favourite comic book character is John Constantine. When I was young I bought a trench-coat and smoked soft-pack Marlboros just so I could be like him.’
Nikki patted him on the shoulder. He heard the door close and a key turn in the lock.
Jane knocked on the door of Sian’s room.
‘Sian? Hello? Anyone home?’
No reply. Jane tried the door. It was unlocked. The room was dark, dimly lit by light spilling from the corridor. Sian was curled on her bunk staring at the wall. She was hugging her pillow.
‘Sorry to intrude,’ said Jane. ‘Ghost said we should both come and see the fireworks.’
‘What fireworks?’
Jane shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t say. He’s acting all mysterious. Seems pretty excited though. May as well humour the man.’
Sian wearily sat up. She switched on her lamp and winced against the sudden glare. She laced her boots.
Jane wanted to make conversation. No point asking: Are you feeling all right? Are you doing okay? The best she could offer was companionship, small talk.
‘We’ve still got a carton of Hyperion egg concentrate. Want a shitty omelette later?’
‘I just want to be quiet for a while, Jane. I don’t want much at all.’
Jane knew a little bit about loss. Not much. She hadn’t wept at a graveside. But she had a boyfriend at university. Mark. He dumped her for a thinner girl. Dumped her by text. She had to watch them arm-in-arm round campus. Those first few days of heartbreak were hell. Jane walked around with a head full of black. Felt like she was drowning. She stood in the supermarket queue and tried to act casual, tried not to sob and scream. Friends told her the grief would slowly ebb. She would think about him a little less each day. But the knowledge that one day she would leaf through Mark’s letters and feel nothing doubled her loss.
