26

WHEN WE SETTLED back on the mattresses, the ginger cat surprised us all by coming over and rubbing itself against Rolfe. Rolfe patted the animal, tentatively at first, and then in long strokes from its head to its tail. The cat was soon curled up on his lap, purring with its eyes closed.

A buzzing noise came on in my head, the type you get on a long-haul flight ten hours from nowhere. I stood up and walked to the other side of the room, and steadied myself against the wall. Then I walked back to the mattresses and lowered myself down next to Jean. She rested her head on my shoulder and dozed for a few hours. She stirred occasionally, and once when she did, she snuggled into me again and I put my arm around her. I feared our sudden closeness might make Rolfe feel a bit excluded, till I caught him smiling as though he found our intimacy somehow reassuring.

At one point, Jean asked if we’d be alright. I tried to sound convincing when I replied that we’d be fine, but I was fighting the growing realisation that our chances of surviving this place hovered somewhere between slim and non-existent.

Later, while Jean slept, Rolfe asked me how I felt about dying. I told him I hadn’t thought about it, which was a lie. Then he asked if I was prepared for death. As well as I could be, I said. And it dawned on me that he was readying himself for the end.

He said he would have liked to have left a last note for his sister. I fished around in my jacket for the ink cartridge from my pen and a faded supermarket receipt I’d found flattened in the back pocket of my trousers. I handed them to him, and he thanked me, then leaned the receipt on the bottom of one of his shoes and wrote down his final thoughts. After he handed me back the cartridge, he asked where he should leave the note. I told him I’d put it under the carpet where the skirting had come away.

‘Why would you hide it where it’ll never be found?’ he said.

‘Look, even if we don’t make it out of here,’ I said, ‘my people will find this place, and when they do, your note will turn up. And, eventually, they’ll pass it on to your sister. I promise.’

He accepted this reassurance and handed the note over. I lifted the carpet and pushed the note under as far as it would go. Just as I was settling back onto the mattresses, the lights went out, plunging the room into darkness for what seemed like several seconds. Then they went on again. And off. And on. As we made our way to the back wall, I reminded myself that if I was going to have an impact here, I had to compensate for what hunger and dehydration were doing to my reaction time, my balance, and my strength. It could be the difference between living and dying. The door opened and quickly closed. The slot in it squeaked, and the lights flickered a couple of times.

When we turned around, a plate full of sliced-up pizza was sitting in front of the door. Without prompting, Rolfe let out a cry of joy and rushed to the food. He shoved a couple of slices into his mouth, then hovered over the plate with his cheeks bulging. The slide in the door remained open a pinch so that Joe could assess how his offering was being received. Jean followed me back to the mattresses, and we slumped down together and scowled at Rolfe.

‘No one can be that bloody hungry, Rolfe,’ I said, eyeing him with contempt. ‘What a complete idiot!’

Rolfe tweaked his eyes into a smile. Jean shook her head and growled. Then Rolfe stepped over the plate of pizza so that he blocked the line of vision between the mattresses and the door.

‘You!’ said Joe, opening the slide a bit more. ‘Go back your friends!’

‘Whatever you say, darling,’ said Rolfe. ‘But you know, you sound rather tense. Maybe you should have some of this pizza. Better be quick, though! Ohhh, no! Too late!’

Rolfe picked up the last four slices, took a bite out of two of them, and hurled the other two at the cats that were spread out along the back wall. The animals cringed, but held their positions as the missiles hit the floor in front of them. Rolfe shot Joe a crazy smile before skipping over and joining us on the mattresses.

The smell of the pizza was almost unbearable, as was the noise Rolfe made while eating it. I concentrated on the growls the ginger and the little black-and-white cat were making as they hoed into the slices Rolfe had tossed at them. Big tom was the only cat with no interest in the food. He’d given one of the slices a suspicious sniff, and had then returned to the door to keep watch on everyone.

Rolfe turned and saluted Joe with a half-eaten slice. Joe muttered something inaudible. Rolfe saluted the door again, prompting Joe to growl at him. Then the slide slammed shut, and Joe was gone. Rolfe immediately lifted the edge of the mattresses and spat partly masticated pizza onto the floor. He added the uneaten bits of pizza to the pile, and dropped the mattresses on top of the lot.

‘So, three-and-a-half slices,’ he said. ‘If it’s drugged, I guess that’ll be more than enough to put me under.’

‘Let’s see how you go,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’ll be alright.’

‘I certainly hope so,’ he said. ‘And when you get us out of this, remember, I’ve got first call on the medics when they arrive. Okay?’

‘That’s only fair, Rolfey,’ said Jean, patting his shoulder. ‘And we will get out of here, won’t we, Darren?’

I nodded, though I now doubted we’d survive this place. I was dehydrated and very tired. I was also very dizzy, and every movement was an effort. Even so, I knew I could muster the strength if ever Joe’s head came within range of my club.

Rolfe shuffled to the end of the mattresses, and the ginger cat climbed onto his lap and went to sleep. Then we waited to see if the food was drugged. The answer came about fifteen minutes later when Rolfe’s eyes closed and his head slumped forward. I checked his breathing. It was shallow but regular. And his pulse seemed normal.

Then I realised that I hadn’t asked him if he snored. If Joe came in, expecting us to be dead, and found Rolfe snoring like a chainsaw, that would be the end of us. I slid the unconscious ginger cat onto the mattress. Then I leaned down and listened to Rolfe’s breathing again. It seemed normal, so I rolled him onto his side and spread my jacket over him. The jacket covered his head and his back, but I could still see the slight rise and fall of his chest. I pulled him upright again, removed his jacket, and laid him back down. Then I placed the two jackets loosely over him. Layered up like that, his breathing was barely visible.

‘It’s best now if we all look like we’re out of it,’ I said, as I settled back next to Jean.

I slipped my hand under the top mattress and took hold of my club, and I was trying to tally how long we’d been locked away when the slot opened and I felt Joe’s eyes on me. I stayed as still as I could, and he closed the slot. A minute or so later, an engine started up on the other side of the wall. They revved it a few times and then let it idle. It had the throaty burble of a big unit — bigger than the one that had brought us here. Perhaps it was a van, or a small truck. I squeezed Jean’s leg. She moved her head back and forth across my shoulder. So here we were, and the gas was on the way. The most important question now became: how long would Joe leave the engine running?

The ceiling cavity could accommodate lots of gas, but the seal we’d put on the vent was far from perfect, and we’d eventually get seepage from around the downlights. I figured we had about twenty minutes before a significant amount of carbon monoxide entered the room.

Other than the muffled sound of the engine, the only other noise came from big tom. He sat in the corner with his head between his legs, snorting occasionally as he cleaned himself. Then two things occurred to me in quick succession.

First, I remembered the old joke about why dogs lick themselves down there. Then I looked at the little black-and-white cat at the back of the room. It was unconscious, a victim of the pizza, like ginger and Rolfe. And I realised that the next time Joe looked in on us, he’d expect everything in the room to be dead and ready for disposal. And there’d be big tom licking his nuts. There was only one thing for it.

I pulled the club from under the mattress, and Jean touched my arm and looked at me inquiringly.

‘When Joe comes in here,’ I said in an urgent whisper, ‘we’ve all got to look like we’re dead, right? So what’s he going to think if that cat’s still licking its nuts?’

She looked at big tom, and the implications of what I’d said hit home. It had me wishing she’d eaten some pizza. At least then she wouldn’t have to witness what I was about to do. I patted her shoulder, pushed myself up, and confirmed that ginger was unconscious. Then I went to the back wall and confirmed that the little black-and-white cat was out to it, too.

I rested the club on my shoulder and walked slowly towards the door, avoiding eye contact with big tom as I closed in on him. All the while, I was aware of the hum of the engine on the other side of the wall. When I was within a few metres of the cat, he got to his feet and puffed himself up, ready to run. I froze and stared at the door, watching him out of the corner of my eye. He stayed crouched for a while. Then, thinking the threat had passed, he settled back onto his haunches.

There’s no right time to strike. The moment selects itself, as it did then. I stepped low towards big tom and swung, but he shot off as soon as I moved, and my club sliced through nothing but thick air.

Then the cat’s luck out ran out because, as he raced past the mattresses, Jean suddenly sat up, and, sensing a trap, he hit his brakes and tried to change course. The move put him within range of my club again. I brought the blunt side of the weapon down hard on his back, and he gave a strangled squeal and slumped onto his side. Then his legs flicked the air a few times, and he was dead. I carried him back to the door and curled him up like he was asleep. When I looked over at Jean, her eyes were wide with shock.

I knelt down next to her and slipped the club under the top mattress. When I sat down, she put her head on my shoulder and I gave her a comforting cuddle. Then I eased her off me and moved away from her a little.

‘I’ll need room,’ I said in a whisper.

She rolled towards Rolfe, and I edged away from her a bit more. Then I rolled over so that I was facing her. I slipped my hand under the mattress and gripped the club again, ready for the fight. I realised that I was puffing and sweating far too much for a man who was supposed to be half dead. I wiped my face with my shirt ends, got back into a ready position, and concentrated on deep breaths. Easy in, easy out. In, and out. Within a few minutes I was back to shallow, almost imperceptible, breathing.

The engine on the other side of the wall continued to hum. Then it escalated through a scale of notes till it was pushing red. Just as suddenly, the revs dropped back to the low, steady hum. Then it revved up again. And again it dropped back. By my estimation, the engine had been running for about fifteen minutes. It meant that if we hadn’t disabled Joe’s delivery system, we would have already been unconscious and close to death. And that, no doubt, was how Joe would expect us to be — nearly gone. The thing was, we’d be okay if he kept the engine going for another five minutes or so. After that, I feared there’d be seepage. And if it went longer than ten minutes, we’d be in very big trouble.

I was stuck on that thought when a headache came on. Was it dehydration, or had I got it from chasing the cat? It could be caffeine withdrawal. Or maybe it was the first stages of carbon monoxide poisoning. There could be more gas in this room than I figured. So what to do? The door was built like a battleship, and the ceiling was full of gas.

I was working to squash these panicky thoughts when I noticed the silence. I held my breath. The engine had stopped. Was it out of petrol? Were they hitching the hose up to another vehicle? No. Why would they do that? Surely they must think it had done the job on us already. As if to confirm that thought, the exhaust fan in the ceiling began to whir.

The fan was still whirring fifteen minutes later … twenty … and twenty-five. Then the door slot scraped open. I felt eyes scanning the room, and a palpable presence assessing us for signs of life.

‘They finished,’ said Joe, turning to someone out in the corridor. ‘You go now. I manage here. Yeah. See you.’

He shut the slide, and his muffled voice receded and died as he and his accomplice moved away from the door. A few minutes later, there was the muted clanking of the roller door. A vehicle fired up and departed the garage, and the roller door descended. I remained frozen, my hand wrapped around the club. Would Joe come in now, or would he leave us for hours? If he left it much longer, I’d be too weak to be effective.

The bolt on the door suddenly slid back with a clang and the door opened. A draft of air brushed my face. Someone lingered in the doorway for a few moments and then strode across the carpet towards me.