Zero Hour (2010)

‘You understand English?’

The only response was some laboured breathing and a cough. She was crying quietly to herself.

Ten minutes passed. There were no more wailing sirens or blue flashing lights. What the fuck was going on? One of the neos was probably dead, and the others couldn’t have legged it. A broken jaw makes you think twice about doing that. It makes you want to stay very, very still instead.

A set of headlights appeared in the rear-view. I felt between the seats to make sure she was still hidden. The green Passat rolled past, still two up. I got a better look at them this time. They’d completed my circuit, down past the ferry, up the bay road, then back.

I waited five more minutes, but there was no sign of the blue-and-white. I switched on the ignition.

‘Stay down …’

I threaded my way through the housing estate until I came out onto a main. I didn’t know where the fuck I was, but I’d work it out soon enough. There was a lot of trouble by the back seat, and I needed to think.

15

I killed the lights and engine the moment I’d nosy-parked in front of the shutter.

‘You - stay there.’ I still didn’t know if she spoke any English, but she didn’t move a muscle.

I pretended to fumble with the keys while I checked my paper telltales. All three were still in position.

I didn’t hit the light switch inside, just pressed the shutter button. As the car came into view, I could see that she was now sitting next to the child seat, her jumper on. She tilted her head and pushed back her blood-matted hair so she could watch me through the windscreen.

I got back into the car and gave her a smile. She pulled her jumper down self-consciously over her thighs, but if her face showed any emotion, it was relief.

I drove into the bay and hit the button again. She remained motionless as the shutter ground its way down. I only hit the light switch when we were in total darkness. The two fluorescent tubes flickered and hummed.

She looked around her. I tapped on the slightly dented roof and bent down to her level. ‘You’re safe here.’ I gestured with my hand. ‘Come on.’

She didn’t budge. She looked at me like she had a choice about this and had decided to stay put.

I pushed down the front passenger seat, leant in and grabbed her arm. She stumbled out onto the cold concrete, clutching her wet and muddy jeans. ‘Let’s try again. What is your name?’

Nothing.

‘Russia? Ukraine? Moldova?’

Her goosebumps were the size of shirt buttons. She tried to cover herself up.

I pointed to the stairs at the back of the loading bay and gave her a gentle push. ‘Let’s go. Up there.’

She stopped at the first landing, awaiting my next command. I steered her all the way to the top floor, keeping behind her so I could check the telltales without her seeing what I was doing. She stood stock still in the middle of the floor, waiting to be told what to do.

I got a much better look at her now. She was no more than five feet tall and could have been anything from fourteen to eighteen years old. Her dyed blonde hair was thick and wiry, and brushed her shoulders. It needed about a week’s worth of shampooing. She was a skinny little thing: not through lack of food, there just wasn’t anything of her. With high cheekbones and huge dark brown eyes, her face looked bigger than her delicate shoulders and graceful neck seemed capable of supporting. She had no eyebrows. They’d been plucked or shaved. It made her look like a porcelain doll. Or a ghost.

I pointed to the shower room.

She looked at me and shivered.

‘Let’s go.’ I took her hand. She offered no resistance. She probably couldn’t have even if she’d wanted to. She felt like she weighed less than the mallet.

I turned on the shower. The cubicle filled with steam. I pointed at the bottle of gel and mimed washing my hair. I showed her the towel, then closed the door and let her get on with it.

I filled the kettle and flicked it on.

I was tired, and pissed off with myself for breaking a life-time’s rule. But there was no point beating myself up about it. Even if it hadn’t been the right thing to do, she was here now. I had to deal with it. I threw a couple of Smarties down my neck with a cupful of cold water.

The kettle clicked off and I made myself a brew with plenty of milk and sugar. I dragged the sleeping bag and airbed out of Bradley’s box. He hadn’t lashed out on the electric-pump option. I didn’t have the energy to inflate it; she’d have to, if she wanted a comfortable night.

I dug around in my day sack, stripped off and put on a dry sweatshirt. I threw my spare jeans onto the sleeping bag; hers were in shit state. I added a long-sleeved T-shirt, a clean pair of socks and some boxer shorts for good measure.

Brew in hand, I went into the mailroom. I checked the telltale and pulled out the folder. I wanted to show her Lilian’s picture.

I sat near the sink with my back against the wall and checked my watch. After 02.00. Fuck, I hadn’t even been here six hours and I was already in rag order.

I put my mug down and rested my head against my knees. The next thing I knew, I was woken by the sound of her coming out of the shower. I looked up. The towel was wrapped under her armpits. She caught sight of the sleeping bag and all the gear and very nearly smiled. Or maybe I was just kidding myself.

‘Drink?’ I pointed at the kettle and made a brew sign with my right hand.

She looked down at my mug, which was still half full. I took a sip. It had gone cold. I must have been out of it for at least half an hour. She raised a non-eyebrow.

‘Yeah, I’ll have one.’

She brushed past me as she leant down to collect my mug. She smelt of shampoo. Her knees cracked, and she still had chicken skin because of the cold.

I stood up and stretched while she got busy with the kettle. I wiped the dribble off my chin stubble and pointed at the gear. ‘That is for you. Dry clothes.’ I went through the motions of putting on jeans. ‘Blow up the airbed.’ I made a trumpet out of my hands and puffed through it. ‘For you to sleep … All right?’

She passed me a steaming mug. The tea was black, with half a kilo of sugar. I fished out Slobo’s Facebook picture and pointed.

‘This girl. Her name is Lilian. Was she in the building? Have you seen her?’

I couldn’t read her expression at all.

‘Have you seen her? Lilian. Her - name - is - Lilian …’

She nodded.

‘You have seen her? Today?’

All of sudden she was scared. I didn’t blame her. It must have taken her back to the last place she ever wanted to be.

‘You sure? Lilian - with you?’

She examined the picture more closely. Her brow furrowed, and she nodded again.

I dug about in Brad’s goodie box for the packet of cheap biros. On the back of the picture, I sketched the internal layout of the silo complex, based on what I’d seen and Anna had told me. I traced a line into the main entrance and then right, into the first room. ‘Lilian - is she in there? In there with you?’

She took her time before giving me another nod. I don’t think she needed to think. It was more that she didn’t know what the fuck was going to happen to her next.

‘The guards? The bad guys?’

I treated her to my cartoon gorilla impression, complete with the hands-under-the-armpits thing. It didn’t even get a flicker of a smile.

‘The guards, there are four?’ I held up my fingers. ‘Four?’

She didn’t answer. She burst into tears.

‘It’s OK. No one will hurt you now. It’s OK …’