Colin and Chick had been skating for an hour and the ice was beginning to get crowded. The same girls and the same boys were constantly going round and round, forever falling over in the same way and being swept away by the sweeper-serfs and their squeegees. The risk-jockey had just lifted from the turntable a chorus that the regulars had been learning by heart for weeks. He replaced it by the flip-side – an action that was thoroughly expected as his habits were beginning to become well-known. But the record suddenly stopped and a stentorian voice could be heard over all the loud-speakers but one, which stubbornly went on with the music. The voice asked Mr Colin if he would go to the Manager’s Office as he was wanted on the telephone.
‘Whatever can that be for?’ said Colin.
He flew to the edge of the rink, followed by Chick, and landed on the rubber matting. He grabbed the rail and rushed into the control cabin where the microphone was.
The risk-jockey was scrubbing the surface of a well-worn record from the top of the charts with a wire-brush to get rid of the scratches.
‘Hello!’ said Colin, picking up the phone.
He listened.
Chick watched him. Firstly he looked shocked, and then turned the same colour as the ice.
‘Is it something serious?’ he asked.
Colin made a sign asking him to keep quiet.
‘I’ll be straight there,’ he said, and hung up.
The sides of the cabin closed in and he just managed to squeeze out, followed closely by Chick, before he was crushed. He twisted his ankles with every step. He called to one of the attendants.
‘Open my cubicle for me quickly. No. 309.’
‘Mine too. No. 311,’ said Chick.
The attendant dawdled along. Colin looked round, saw him ten yards behind and waited till he had caught him up. Taking brutal aim with his skate, he gave him a savage karate chop under the chin and the attendant’s head flew off and landed on the top of one of the ventilation shafts while Colin took the key which the body was still absent-mindedly clutching in its hand. Colin opened a cubicle, kicked the trunk inside, spat on it and dashed off to No. 309. Chick slammed the door.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ he asked breathlessly when he got there.
Colin had already taken off his skates and put on his shoes.
‘It’s Chloe,’ said Colin. ‘She’s been taken ill.’
‘Seriously?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Colin. ‘She’s fainted.’
He was ready and rushed out.
‘Where are you going?’ cried Chick.
‘Home! …’ shouted Colin, and he disappeared, followed by the reinforced echoes of the concrete stairs.
At the other end of the rinkunabula the half-suffocated maintenance men from the ventilation plant were crawling out because the air-conditioning had collapsed. They fell down, exhausted, all round the rink.
Chick, stupefied, one skate in his hand, looked in bewilderment at the spot where Colin had disappeared.
Under the door of Cubicle No. 128, a thin bubbly trickle of blood was stickily oozing out, and the red liquid began to drip on to the ice in fat heavy steaming drops.