“Bembridge. For a cop, you’re not very observant, are you? I’m checking ration papers.”

“Don’t get smart with me. I can see what you are doing. I want to know why. You’re not even on duty.”

“We’re always on duty. Didn’t you learn that in police school?”

“We’re not police. I’ll ask you again, why are you holding up this queue?”

“I’m not holding anyone up. You’re doing that, by preventing me from working. Excuse me, sir? I need to see your ration card. Spot check. Thank you.”

Bembridge exhaled noisily, his cheeks turning pink. “I haven’t been told about any security checks.”

“Perhaps Max doesn’t think you can manage the extra work?”

“Right, that’s it. I’m calling Max. We’ll put a stop to this.” He reached for his radio, unclipping it from his belt.

“Rupert!” Grace jerked her head, indicating her desire to talk to him privately. He gave her a sideways look, but obliged, pushing his way through the line of diners. She spoke quietly into his ear. “Listen, this is a special op, okay? A stakeout. I’m looking for someone.”

“Special op? Are you for real? I’m calling Max.”

“Sure, go ahead, but he’ll tell you the same thing, once he’s through hollering at you.”

“And why would he ‘holler’ at me?”

“Because he’s briefing the captain on this operation right now. And you know how cranky he gets if he’s disturbed for no good reason. So, you know, just tread careful, okay?”

Bembridge looked unconvinced, but Grace had planted enough doubt in his mind to make him think twice. “How long are you going to be here?”

“Ten minutes, twenty tops.”

“I want you gone in ten. Otherwise I’m calling Mooting and I’ll make sure you suffer the consequences.”

He pushed his way back through the queue and disappeared out of sight. Grace smiled to herself, and carried on checking papers.

She didn’t need the ten minutes he’d given her. Six minutes after Bembridge’s interference, her stakeout was over.

“Security check, can I see your ration paper please?”

“What?”

“I need to see your ration paper, ma’am.”

“Oh, yes, here it is. There are two. One’s my husband’s. He’s feeling under the weather. I’m collecting his meal for him.”

“No problem, that’s within the rules for married couples, Mrs…” She read the name on the dog-eared slip that the elderly lady had handed her, and her heart sank. “Mrs Moran.”

• • •

The cabin was in darkness when Dan finally returned. He hoped that she was asleep, that she hadn’t been worried about him being gone for such a long time. It was the longest he had left her since — he had to think about it — since they had been aboard the ship, he realised with alarm.

“Dan?”

Her voice drifted up from the bed. Not asleep, then. Not quite.

“Yeah. Sorry I was so long. There was trouble. At that meeting.”

She sat up and brushed her long dark hair from her face, then fumbled around for the light switch. “Are you okay? What kind of trouble?”

“Nothing serious, don’t worry. Here, here’s your dinner.”

She smiled at him weakly. He put down the plate on the little round corner table and helped her from the bed.

“So?”

“They found a ship. A boat, really. Small, they said. Probably more survivors on board.”

“No land?”

He shook his head, and sank to the bed, watching with hungry eyes as she tucked into the meagre rations of pasta, a tiny slice of ham, and a watery sauce. He would have settled for the little slice of bread on the side, but her need was far greater than his. He felt his belly rumble, and tried to mask the sound with a pillow. She looked at him, pity in her eyes.

“Did you find anything? Here, take the bread.”

“No. You eat it. You need it. I saw Elizabeth. She found me something. Honestly, I’m fine.” He hated the white lie.

“More survivors? They might know where there’s some land.”

“Maybe.”

She continued to eat in silence. When she was almost done, mopping up the rest of the flavourless sauce with the bread, Dan coughed and shifted uneasily.

“Elizabeth said that the survivors might need medical attention.”

“Yeah, probably.” She spoke through a mouthful of wet bread.

“She said that medical could be overworked when they come aboard.”

“Hmmm.” She swallowed the bread and looked at him, waiting for him to continue, but he just sat there, looking at her.

“Oh,” she said, as it dawned on her what he meant. “She thinks there could be another virus, like before?”

“Maybe. Or something like it. And I was thinking, she’s right.”

Some of the colour drained from her dark olive skin, making her look quite ghostly in the low light. “We can’t put it off any longer, can we?”

He shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon. We have to go sooner or later. It’s not going to be any easier, waiting longer.”

“No. You’re right. We should go. We will go.” She stood, taking him by surprise.

“Now?” He looked up, wide-eyed.

“When will we be picking up these other survivors?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember. In a few hours, or tomorrow. I can’t remember.”

“We have to go now then, don’t we, Dan?” She put her hands around his neck, bent down, and kissed his forehead. “It’ll be okay. What can they do, really? We’ve put this off too long, and it’s silly. We’ve made ourselves afraid for no good reason. Come on. Let’s go, right now. Before I change my mind.”

Eight

HE CAME TO with a start. Something had hit him. Something, or someone. A second later he remembered where he was, and why. Despair filled his head, a thousand inescapable voices screaming at him. Why couldn’t he just die? Why were they keeping him alive?

Another kick, a foot connecting with his own.

He opened his eyes. Before him, the silhouette of a man, a cut-out in the light that streamed through the open door. It dropped something.

A bowl of rice landed between his legs, spilling half its contents across the disgusting floor.

The silhouette-man knelt, scooped up some of the white fluffy grain in a spoon, and held it to his mouth.

He wanted to refuse it. If he starved himself, he would die eventually. He had to. Yet the survival instinct was too strong, and he found his mouth opening of its own accord. The spoon was thrust inside and before he could stop himself he was chewing hungrily. The overcooked rice had no flavour, but it didn’t matter, he swallowed it down, and grunted for more.

As the food slowly made its way into his system, he found he could think more clearly. When he thought, it was of his wife. She was still up there, among them. A prisoner, yes, but not like him. She was being compelled to do their bidding, whatever that might be. His imagination got carried away, filling his mind with images of just what they might be forcing her into. It was too much. His stomach twisted, and with a heave the rice came back up, spewing from his lips and hitting the silhouette full in the face.

Silhouette-man roared with rage. He jumped back, clawing at his eyes. He shouted something incomprehensible, took a step forward, and lashed out with his foot.

He saw it coming, but that was no consolation. The heel of his captor’s boot buried itself between his legs. His groin exploded with pain and he was sick again, but his belly was empty and this time he retched dryly. The figure before him grunted and kicked at the swamp of excrement and urine on the floor, sending gobs of the foul mess raining over him.

The pain reminded him that he was alive. He had to stay alive. For her. As long as he was alive there was a chance, no matter how slim, that he could help her.

He made a promise to himself there and then: no more thoughts of giving in; no more willing himself to die. He wouldn’t let them get away with it. He would eat their rations, be an obedient prisoner. He would stay awake rather than hide in the fog of unconsciousness. And when the time came, if…when, opportunity arose, he would be ready.