Page 93 of Final Betrayal

He could hear muffled noise above his head, but he knew what it was. Heavy machinery. Cutting and grinding. As work continued up there, masonry kept falling downwards. He moved away from the wall, and heard the drip, drip of water. He couldn’t see, but he knew it was seeping from some unknown source and rising around his feet. Another step. Water splashed over the ankles of the steel-capped boots he was wearing. Pipes must have burst overhead. He knew a water main snaked along above some of the tunnels. He tried to remember if there was a tunnel adjacent to the one he was in. And still the water was rising.

The tunnel was going to be flooded. If he didn’t manage to get out in time, he was going to drown.

He had no fear of being underground, but he sensed the terror of never getting out. Like the body encased behind him. And that thought gave him an idea.

He turned around and made his way back towards the body. It might be his only chance of escape.

FORTY-FIVE

The wound in her head had been seen to. The cut on her cheek had been treated with antiseptic and four stitches. Lottie eased herself off the trolley in the packed A&E, and as she put her feet to the floor, her entire body jarred. Pain shot through her lower back and up her spine and nestled in an ache around her shoulders. She felt like shit. But she had too many other things to worry about to be concerned about herself.

She threaded through the crowd of staff and walking wounded. She needed information. But she couldn’t see any of her team. Or Boyd.

Grabbing the arm of a passing medic, she said, ‘Mark Boyd. He was brought in with me. Do you know where I can find him?’

‘Check at reception.’ He hurried away.

No way was she going out to reception. She’d never get back in. At each cubicle she peeked in through the drawn curtains. No sign of Boyd.

‘Dear God, don’t let him be dead,’ she whispered. The emotion that had been numbed by the shock of the accident was back like an explosion.

She cornered a nurse and asked the same question.

‘Treatment room,’ the nurse said and pointed out directions.

Outside the door, Lottie rested her hand on the handle and peered in through the small rectangle of glass at eye level. He was in there. He looked alive. There was no one else present. She opened the door and rushed to his bedside.

‘Boyd, you fecking idiot. Are you okay?’

He opened his eyes and smiled crookedly. A line of stitches ran from the corner of his bottom lip diagonally to his chin. ‘You look a little worse for wear yourself,’ he said, his voice a coarse whisper.

‘Do I sound as weird as you?’ The smoke and dust had torn shreds from her throat.

‘Yeah.’ He patted the edge of the bed. ‘Sit.’

Perched on the bed, she took his hand in hers. ‘I thought you were dead.’

‘Hard to kill a bad thing.’

‘Suppose so.’ She glanced at the machinery surrounding the bed. ‘What’s all the monitors for?’

‘Monitoring?’

‘Smart-arse. What did the doctor say?’

‘I can go home in an hour.’

‘Liar.’

‘No, honestly. Got the back of my head stitched up. Might have concussion, but that doesn’t worry me. Bruising on my spine, but no broken bones.’

‘Did you have an X-ray?’

‘Yes. I’m grand. I’m all right.’

‘An MRI? Surely they have to do an MRI? I’m creased with pain but you took the full weight of the rubble. You’re not leaving here until you’re fully checked out. Got it?’ She knew there was no MRI equipment in Ragmullin Hospital, so Boyd would have to be transported to Tullamore. She would insist on it.

He tried to lean up on the pillows, but winced and sank back down. ‘I feel at a disadvantage not being able to look you in the eye.’

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