But his mind kept wandering. Even as he scanned the pipes, he found himself wondering why Thaddeus hadn't come to his rescue. Why, for example, hadn't Adolf's surveillance Grunts stopped Max? Because they had been pulled off Cadel's tail when things started happening at Yarramundi? Because Max had killed them? Because they had been keeping an eye on Cadel, not his house, and didn't realize that Max had been waiting for him in there?
Perhaps Thaddeus didn't even know that Cadel was missing yet. He'd know soon, though. Max was using Cadel to protect himself.
Leave me alone, or the boy gets it.
Would Max decide to send Thaddeus a little piece of proof? A finger, perhaps? A toe? To show that he was serious?
As soon as this possibility occurred to Cadel, he leaped off the mattress and hurried over to the exposed plumbing. Several pipes emerged from the wall, wandered along it a little way (dividing several times as they did so), and then plunged back into the concrete, vanishing from sight. All of them had been painted over, like the rest of the room, but the paint was flaking. When Cadel tried to pull one of them off the wall, bits of dry paint fluttered onto his sweater and caked under his fingernails.
He tugged and jerked, but nothing much happened. While the pipe did rattle and move slightly, parts of it seemed fused to the wall. Perhaps the layers of old paint were acting like a weld. Or perhaps there were brackets, rusting into the concrete, which held the pipe in place.
If only he had something hard, like a hammer. But then, if he had a hammer, he wouldn't need a piece of pipe. He could hit Tommy with the hammer.
Cadel wrenched at the pipe as hard as he could and managed only to hurt himself. When he sucked the injured finger, he got a mouthful of dry paint. Knowing that the paint was probably full of poisonous lead, he quickly spat it out. And then he noticed something.
Where he'd scraped the paint away, the exposed metal wasn't grayish galvanized iron. It was greenish copper.
Copper.
From that point on, Cadel ceased to notice his headache. His mind began to work; his gaze hopped from the pipe to the heater and back again. He made a mental list of what was available in the room: a chip bag, a pillow, a duvet, a mattress, a small juice carton. And there were his clothes, of course. His sweater was made of wool (curse it), and his pants of cotton, but his shirt was polyester. And his socks were mostly nylon.
Glancing at the door, he wondered if anyone was watching him. He couldn't see a window, or even a peephole. Nor could he see any evidence of cameras—no wiring, no cable ducts. There was just the one electrical socket, with a heater plugged into it.
The heater's cord was a long one. Moreover, it was insulated, not by plastic but by old-fashioned textile, which was frayed in some places. Of course, the wires inside would be plastic-coated, but Cadel was still pleased. He ticked a mental box before returning to the mattress and making a feeble attempt to pull it toward the heater. Having dragged it across the floor a short distance, he pretended to give up. Instead, he went back to the heater, which he turned off at the power point. Then he pushed the heater closer to the mattress and untangled its knotted electric cord, surreptitiously wrapping the cord around a copper pipe. By digging his fingernails into the fabric insulation wrapped around the cord, he managed to tear some of it away, exposing the multicolored wires underneath. But that wouldn't be enough.
The trick was to wind the cord as tightly as possible, stretching it dangerously and damaging the plastic insulation, to ensure that every wire was clamped against metal. He had to act quickly, too, because someone might be watching. With a final tug, he dropped the cord and turned the heater back on. Then he scrambled back under his duvet, where, concealed by its heavy folds, he picked away at its stitching—
and
at the stitching of his pillow. He wanted to get at the stuffing, which was probably made of polyester. Fluffy, flammable polyester. There was his mattress, as well: The foam might burn, or at least melt.
He didn't know how long it took him to rip open the duvet. Without a watch, he couldn't be sure. Fifteen minutes? Twenty minutes? The pillow took longer, because the workmanship was better. As for the mattress, that was a real test. He yanked and gnawed away at it for ages. At last, having done as much as he dared, he opened the chip bag and ate about a third of its contents. He didn't want to eat it all, though by now he was quite hungry. He couldn't afford to waste all that oil by stuffing it down his throat.
Not once did he allow his gaze to linger on the power cord. Sometimes he would glance around the room, and on these occasions, he would check the spot where the cord was coiled around the copper pipe. He made sure, however, that he paid more attention to the toilet, or the door, or the light fixture. Anywhere but that nasty little time bomb, which didn't have a fuse.
For all his calculations, he was uncertain when the short would occur—if, indeed, it occurred at all. He wasn't even sure what time it was. How long had it been since Max's visit? Two hours, perhaps? A little more? Time was irrelevant here in his dungeon. It could be the middle of the night, for all he knew.
Sonja could have been waiting for hours and hours. Waiting and hoping...
Finally, he had to go to the toilet. He didn't have a choice. The toilet flushed when he pulled the dangling string; almost immediately afterward, Tommy stuck his head into the room.
"You all right?" he rasped, as Cadel fumbled desperately with the zipper on his fly. "You been sick?"
"No, I—"
"Pissing?"
"Yes."
"Okay."
"Wait!" cried Cadel, because Tommy was shutting the door. "I'm thirsty! Can I have a drink? I've finished the first one."
In reply, another box of juice sailed into the room, hitting the floor at the same instant the locks clicked into place. Obviously, there was a pile of juice boxes right outside the door. A pile of chips, too, probably. Cadel wondered if they were intending to feed him nothing but chips and juice.
Then he smelled it.
He looked around before he could stop himself. Sure enough, the cord was turning brown. An oily drift of smoke was followed by a small, hot, orange flicker....
Cadel dashed for his pillow. He plucked out a wad of polyester fluff, which he placed on the melting insulation. The fluff caught alight immediately. Cadel dropped it on the ground. He emptied the rest of the pillowcase, allowing the drifts of fluff to pile up and start burning. He added the contents of the duvet, slowly, so as not to smother any shooting flames. To his disappointment, the duvet stuffing didn't burn as well as the pillow stuffing. (Could it have been treated with fire retardant?) When he added the chips, however, he got a better result. The pillowcase, too, was threadbare enough to burn well. But his socks were so sweaty, they didn't have quite the effect that he'd expected.
He began to tear up the duvet cover, coughing as the smoke tickled his throat and stung his eyes. The smell was awful. The fumes were probably dangerous. By the time he threw his shirt onto the fire, it was good and hot, though the fabric burned slowly, emitting a lot of smoke. Paint flakes helped, as did the chip bag, which was slick with oil. The mattress stuffing, however, was hard to tear up. Cadel struggled with it furiously before finally peeling back the cover and pushing a corner of the foam into the flames. To his surprise, it went up like barbecue bricks. What sort of people manufactured a mattress stuffing that caught fire so quickly? The mattress cover, on the other hand, wouldn't cooperate at all. When Cadel held it to the flames, it was barely singed. So he discarded it.
"Help!" he cried. He had to hurry—he didn't have much fuel. He was just heading for the door, coughing furiously, when a sharp
crack
startled him. Turning, he saw an awe-inspiring sight.
The heater was ablaze.
Evidently, there must have been a faulty weld in the heater—an oil leak, in other words. Cadel was just beginning to calculate probabilities (would the machine actually explode?) when he heard the sound of a key in a lock.
"What's going on?" a gruff voice demanded.
Cadel collapsed to the floor, gasping and retching. The room was already full of the most vile-smelling smoke; behind him, the heater's metal sheath was making alarming noises. Suddenly, the light went off.
"What the hell—," exclaimed Tommy, as he stepped into the room. By now, Cadel was lying facedown on the floor. Tommy stooped down to touch him. "Are you all right?" the big man coughed. "Oh, for Chris'sake..."
"
What's going on?" a
distant voice called, and Cadel's heart skipped a beat. There was another one! Damn it!
"Get the extinguisher!" yelled Tommy, coughing. "
What
?"
"
Get the extinguisher!
" As the fire crackled, fed by a draft from the open door, Tommy hauled Cadel out of the room and dropped him onto the floor outside. Cadel kept his eyes shut, and his mouth open. He heard feet thundering down the stairs beside him.
"Here!" someone panted.
"Give it to me," snapped Tommy.
"What the hell?"
"How do you work this thing?"
Cadel lifted his eyelid a fraction. Two pairs of legs were lined up in front of him. He saw one advance, disappearing back into the smoky dungeon. The other pair seemed to hesitate. It stopped in the doorway.
"What are you—
cough, cough
—doing?" the owner of these legs demanded.
"It doesn't work!" his mate replied.
"Pull the pin!"
"I did!"
"No, not like that, like this. Here..."
As soon as the second pair of legs followed the first, Cadel lurched to his feet. He flew up the stairs, desperately gulping down tainted air, and reached the top to find himself in an enormous room. A vast, cavernous space. In the split second available to him, Cadel caught a glimpse of windows high up near a lofty ceiling ... a gigantic piece of machinery, bolted to the floor ... double doors, with an
EXIT
sign over them ... a switchbox ... a fire alarm ... a hard hat ... a pair of plastic chairs ... a table with playing cards on it ... a steel thermos and two mugs...
But someone had heard his fleeing footsteps.
"
Hey!
"
A large weight was pounding up the stairs. Cadel hardly had time to think. He dashed to the table, grabbed the thermos, and bolted across the room to the fire alarm. Then he smashed the glass with the thermos and slapped at the alarm button.
A high-pitched siren began to sound. It was deafening.
"Little
shit!
" screamed Tommy's mate, charging Cadel like a rabid rhinoceros. Cadel ducked and dodged the man's flailing fist. Screaming, "Help! Help!" he ran toward the exit, slipped, recovered, and threw himself onto the double doors. As he yanked at the handle, someone grabbed his hair from behind and pulled.
He shrieked.
"It's locked, ya moron!" Tommy's mate roared, stamping hard on Cadel's bare foot.
The pain was excruciating. Cadel sank to his knees, writhing in agony.
"What are you doing?" Tommy demanded, from nearby—Cadel wasn't sure where. "Don't hurt him, are you crazy?"
"I was just—"
"Shut off that goddamn alarm!"
Even now, Cadel could smell smoke. He was lying on the floor, groaning and holding his foot, his ears ringing. He wore nothing but a pair of brown cords.
Someone grabbed his arm and hoisted him upright.
"It's your own stupid fault, kid," said Tommy grimly. "Con, will you
shut off
that
alarm
?"
"I'm trying to!" came the frantic reply, pitched loud over the siren's wail. "Tell me how!"
"Oh, for Chris'sake..."
"We gotta get out of here!"
Tommy turned to Cadel, giving him a shake.
"Can
you
turn this off?" he growled. Through tear-filled eyes, Cadel saw that Tommy's own eyes were bloodshot. His nose and cheeks were purple. His scars stood out vividly on his flushed, bald head.
He looked terrifying.
"Tommy, we gotta go!" Con insisted. "
Now.
"
"You'll pay for this, you little shit," said Tommy. His hand moved from Cadel's arm and grabbed a handful of curly dark hair. "You better keep quiet," he warned, thrusting his face into Cadel's, "or I'll cut out your tongue."
Thump! Thump! Thump!
It was the sound of a knock on the big, double doors.
Tommy froze, still clutching Cadel's hair.
"Hello!" said a woman's muffled voice. "Is anybody there?"
Tommy gestured to Con. Then he pointed at something else—the opposite wall. Now that the pain in his foot was subsiding, Cadel could see that he was in some sort of factory or warehouse. An abandoned print-shop, perhaps? And there was another exit. A back way out.
Tommy was pointing at the back way.
"Oh my god," cried the woman's voice. "Smell it. Can you smell it?"
"Smoke," said another voice—the trembling voice of an elderly man.
"There
is
a fire. You'd better phone the fire department."
They must have been standing right outside the double doors, because someone began to jiggle the handle. But these particular doors were locked. Tommy started to move away, dragging Cadel with him. As he did so, Cadel realized why the woman's voice sounded vaguely familiar.
It belonged to Wilfreda. He was sure of it.
"It's locked," she yelled, straining to be heard over the keening alarm. Con unlocked the rear exit door and pushed it open cautiously. He had drawn a gun from somewhere beneath his jacket.
Tommy tucked Cadel under his arm, as if carrying a bunch of spinach or a stuffed toy. Cadel was too frightened and confused to put up any kind of fight. He could hardly even see, through his tears. He was aware of passing over a threshold into the night air; of Con, up ahead, fumbling with the lock of a dark-colored car, its shiny finish reflecting the golden glow of a streetlight; of Tommy stopping suddenly, with a jerk.
A shot rang out. Con spun away from the dark car's open door and crumpled to the pavement. Then Cadel hit the ground, too—dropped like a stone.