The scream sparked into life somewhere around Fang’s gut, forcing its way up her throat and into her mouth, but she resisted it. ‘Do something,’ she shouted at Plug, transfixed, the empty oxygen bottle still in his hand. North was a moron-person. But he’d been so paranoid that this was his only way back. I can’t come in on a flight, Fang. Whatever this is, it’s dangerous or Hone wouldn’t be putting me out there instead of one of his own. I don’t know who’s watching, and I don’t trust Hone to get me back without attracting attention from people I’d rather forget.
Plug pulled out a first aid box from under the gurney and unclasped it, throwing open the lid in the same moment as reaching in and pulling out a hypodermic needle. He unzipped the parka, sliding his blade through the layers to reveal bare skin. He plunged the needle up to its hilt into North’s chest and pressed down the plunger.
Nothing happened.
It wasn’t enough, she thought, but she couldn’t get the words out. She imagined North’s heart quivering in his chest. Not pumping. Just trembling, waiting for even that to stop.
Plug let loose a torrent of abuse at North as the limo driver dragged a defibrillator box from out of the boot. These guys had no idea what they were doing, Fang thought. Plug unsnapped the latches to pull out two sticky pads and attached them to North’s chest. Skinny wires snaked back into the box. ‘Shockable,’ he said, looking terrified. ‘Charging!’ He banged his huge hand down on the button and North’s body convulsed, then collapsed. Panic built in Fang. Were they hurting him? Could you hurt the dead? Could you be deader than dead? There was no twitch, no breath, no rise of the chest.
‘Bring him back, right now,’ she yelled. ‘CPR. Do the CPR thing!’ Her feet swung in the air as she struggled to reach North, but the limo driver was holding her.
Plug swore as he made a tight fist and thumped down on North’s chest – once, twice, three times. He tipped North’s head back and pinched his nose, breathing air into his mouth, once, twice. He leant over his friend’s body, his hands locked together, fingers interlaced as he pressed down on North’s chest then released, down and release – she lost count of how many times. Breathed. Pumped.
Fang willed North to come back to them. Not to take the easy way out. He was sad. She knew that. Really sad. But he had to come back. Choose to get back in the game. Not just because without him she had no chance of bringing her mother home, but because she needed him alive.
‘Do the machine thing again,’ Fang could hear someone shouting, and realized it was her. ‘It’s too low. Turn it up.’
Plug pressed a switch on the machine. ‘Charging!’ he said, stepping away from North. It took less than a second, but it seemed an eternity to Fang.
There was a sudden smell of metal and burning hair, as North’s body spasmed and dropped back into the coffin, rocking the gurney. Then nothing. The moment went on forever. Fang squeezed her eyes closed so she didn’t have to let out any tears, then opened them again as, gasping for air, North sat bolt upright, a red bruise over his heart and two scorch marks either side of his chest.
She felt her own body go limp with relief as the limo driver released her from his grip. She was right, as ever. Smuggling yourself into the country in a coffin with an undersized corpse and 100 kg of cocaine was a terrible idea.
North’s eyes met hers as he sucked down the deepest breath he could take in, his forearm pushing against Plug. There was an apology there she thought, and a promise. He was back. He was in this with her. He was getting her mother out from Hone’s clutches and he wasn’t going anywhere. And for the first time since the immigration goons walked her mother out the door, Fang felt herself flood with what anyone else would have called happiness.
‘Now “that” never happens.’ Plug slapped an oversized hand down on his friend’s shoulder, North’s collarbones crunching in protest, and the undertaker’s raucous gales of laughter filled the garage like flapping birds.
North leant over the side of the coffin to retch up green bile, before wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘“Leave it with me,” you said. You “bring people in this way all the time,” you said.’ Wincing, his fingertips prodded the outer margins of the burgeoning bruises on his sternum.
Plug waved his hand. ‘Delays at Customs are killing me. And in my defence, you did give me eff-all time to pull this off. And you’re welcome, by the way.’
North gripped the sides of the coffin as he levered himself up and away. His feet hit the ground with a thud. ‘So now I’m back in Blighty...’ – he said, swaying as he spoke – ‘... who’s up for trouble?’ He smiled at Fang like he already knew the answer, before a look of puzzlement washed over his face. His blue eyes widened, then blinked shut once, twice, three times as he reeled forwards then backwards, before keeling over unconscious on to the concrete floor.
‘North, mate, you are such high-maintenance,’ Plug said, staring down at his friend’s recumbent body. But he was grinning.