When he passes a pylon, he swings the pipe against it. The clanging sound echoes through the factory. He does it again at the next pylon.
Clang!
And the next one.
Clang!
And the next.
Clang!
75
Cyrus
Evie is screaming. I’m drawn to the sound, climbing as fast as I can, but the stairwell is full of broken wood and concrete and scrap metal. When I reach a partially open fire door, I force my arm through and then my shoulder, my head, the rest of me, scraping my chest against the sharp edges.
Lilah and Daniela are slumped forward in metal chairs with their arms bound behind them and tape across their mouths. Blood is running over their wrists and hands and is pooled beneath their feet.
I yell into my phone. ‘I need paramedics. Bandages. Plasma. Two women. Bleeding out.’
‘Where is Rennie?’ asks Lenny.
‘He’s not here. I think he must have Evie.’
‘Is he armed?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I can’t send paramedics into danger.’
‘They’re dying,’ I say. ‘I need help now.’
I take off my shirt and begin ripping it apart with my teeth, creating bandages. I see a drone hovering in the window. Sound echoes through the building. Clang! Clang! Clang! It’s coming from a distant part of the factory, perhaps another stairwell or the floor below.
Lenny is yelling at the paramedics to get moving. An armed response team is bringing them inside.
Lilah opens her eyes. I pull away the tape. ‘Daniela first,’ she whispers.
I do as she asks, wrapping torn cloth around Daniela’s forearm and tightening the tourniquet to slow the bleeding. The bandage changes colour immediately. I keep wrapping, but it doesn’t seem to make a difference.
I press my fingers against Daniela’s neck, searching for a pulse. It’s there. Barely. From below, I hear a battering ram breaking down a door and shouts of ‘Clear!’
I take another strip of cloth and repeat the process, wrapping a bandage around Lilah’s forearm, tightening it, and tying it off. I wrap my fingers over the bandages, squeezing as hard as I can, keeping pressure on the wounds. I’m kneeling in a puddle of their blood.
Lilah is still conscious. Mumbling. I can’t understand the words. I lean closer.
‘Evie. Find her.’
The clanging has stopped and the only sound I hear are the boots on the stairs, getting nearer.
I leave my phone on Lilah’s lap. ‘Keep talking. They’re almost here.’
Lenny’s voice. ‘What are you doing? Stay together.’
‘Go,’ whispers Lilah, nodding her head in the direction they went.
I squeeze her shoulder and begin running into the shadows, passing through a forest of metal pylons that hold up the ceiling. Occasionally, one of them is scarred or dented by a recent impact, as though someone has left me a trail to follow.
I reach some sort of boiler or engine room that has machinery rusted into place between the metal stanchions. Old pipes that once carried water or steam are criss-crossing the ceiling.
‘Elias? It’s me,’ I say. ‘Where are you?’
The question bounces back at me from the darkness. I try different names – Rennie and Evie. The answer is the same.
Another exit. More stairs. These ones are clear of rubbish but reek of mould and fetid water rising from the basement. I descend, stopping every few steps to listen and look over the railing for some movement. Glass shatters in a muffled whop. It came from nearby. I follow the direction of the noise and emerge on a different level of the factory, which is darker because the windows are boarded up.
I reach some sort of canteen with a counter and a serving window. There are tables and benches coated in dust. A dented urn is still plugged into a wall socket. An extractor fan hangs from the ceiling by a single wire.
Something on the wall reflects the light. Liquid. Not water. Blood. The stain is shaped like a hand. I hear a gurgling sound, then silence, apart from my heartbeat.
‘Rennie? It’s over,’ I yell. ‘The police are here.’
The words echo and are smothered by the silence.
‘I know about your son and your wife. I understand why you’re hurting. I know what it’s like to lose someone.’
Beside the serving hatch is a door to the kitchen. Inside, there are cabinets with broken or missing doors. Linoleum flooring. An industrial oven. Twin sinks. Blood snakes across the tiles, leading away from me.
I hear someone softly humming. Edging past the ovens and burner rings, I reach the end of a bench. I turn my head and glimpse the outline of someone, crouching in the corner.
‘Rennie?’ I ask.
The humming continues. The figure is sitting with his back to a wall with his arms wrapped around something. I move closer.
‘It’s me. Cyrus.’
The figure half turns, revealing his face. Elias. He cocks his head to one side but doesn’t answer.
‘Where is Rennie?’
Elias seems to be staring past me. I follow his gaze to another corner of the kitchen where I see the dark outline of a body lying crumpled on the floor. The head is resting inside an oven, while the torso lies across the hinged door. I move closer. My foot kicks a lead pipe. It rolls across the tiles.
Crouching next to the figure, I touch hair. Wet. A shoulder. Warm. I search for a pulse. None. I know CPR. I can save him. Rolling him onto his back, I tilt his head and prepare to give him mouth to mouth, but he has no face. Nothing recognisable. The beating did not end when Rennie stopped moving. It did not end when he stopped breathing. It did not end until Elias stopped swinging the lead pipe.
I retreat. Elias is still crouched in the same spot with his arms folded around his chest. He tilts his head like a bird staring through the bars of a wire cage.
‘Where is Evie?’ I ask.
He lowers his chin, and I realise that he’s holding her. Her head is nestled in the crook of his arm, her face wet, her eyes closed. My heart stops. Breaks. I can’t tell if she’s alive or dead.
I moan and stifle a sob.
‘Shhhhhh,’ says Elias, rocking back and forth. ‘You might wake her.’
Evie stirs. Her eyes open. Her head lifts. She reaches her arms towards me like a child swapping one parent for another.
Her head is against my chest. ‘What about Lilah? Daniela?’ she asks.
‘The paramedics are with them.’
‘Will they … ?’ She can’t finish.
‘I hope so.’
Elias makes a noise deep in his throat. Toneless. Mournful. It may be acceptance, or disappointment, or grief.
‘I guess this means I’m going home.’
76
Evie
The waiting room has a signed photograph of Princess Diana on the wall, which was taken on the day she visited Rampton in September 1989. Prince William would have been seven years old and Harry five. Agnesa wasn’t even born then, but she would have married either of them. She wasn’t fussy about her princes, not even the bald ones.
My fingerprints have been taken biometrically, along with my photograph, and proof of my address. Now they’re searching my bag.
‘You can’t take this in,’ says the guard. He’s holding up a box of Coco Pops.
‘It’s only cereal.’
‘There might be something hidden inside.’