The Undercurrent

by Paula Weston

  Of course he knows her. Doesn’t everyone?

  She steps inside and plants herself in front of the doors. On a better day, she’d move out of the way so he could get around her. On a better day she’d feel bad about freaking out a guy fit enough to run down forty-five flights of stairs if he wanted to. Not today. If he doesn’t have the guts to ask her to move or to step around her, he’ll have to ride back down to the ground floor.

  She turns her back on him, jabs the console and closes the doors.

  3

  Ryan stares at the back of Julianne De Marchi’s head. What is she doing heading downstairs already?

  He wasn’t expecting her, not yet. She’s supposed to be in an interview and he’s supposed to be in the waiting area. Just in case. He got in a quick sniff before the lift doors shut. He couldn’t smell smoke—and nobody was shouting—so maybe there was no drama.

  De Marchi lets out her breath in a huff. A strand of dark hair has escaped, disappearing beneath the collar of her white shirt. She scoops it up with quick fingers and wraps it around the bun. He watches her reflection in the mirrored wall as they pick up speed. She’s already somewhere else, not bothering with the second glance he gets from most girls. Ryan keeps staring, thrown by her sudden proximity. And then the lights go out and the lift jerks to a stop.

  The blackness is absolute. It presses against him, crushes his chest. He hears De Marchi suck in a breath but she doesn’t make any other sound. She’s fumbling about, orientating herself. He takes a step, then falters. Blood rushes in his ears and his breaths come short and sharp. The panic hits in waves, draining his legs of feeling. He needs to stay still for a second and keep his head. Remember the assignment. A bell rings once, too loud in this tiny space. De Marchi’s found the alarm.

  ‘You got a lighter?’ His words are strung tight.

  ‘No.’

  The darkness is suffocating. ‘Matches?’

  She’s silent for a second and then: ‘Don’t be a smartarse.’

  He barely registers the insult. He’s too busy remembering how to breathe.

  She exhales. ‘No, I don’t have matches, or a lighter—’

  Pale blue light flickers in the lift and relief floods through him: the emergency generator has kicked in. Julianne De Marchi is right in front of him, one hand on the mirror to steady herself, the other out in front protectively, almost touching his chest. Their eyes lock and she looks as startled as Ryan to find him so near. She steps away first.

  The console is dead. Ryan hits a dozen buttons anyway. There’s enough backup power for the bulb in the corner but not enough for anything else. He drops to one knee and prises open the door to an old-fashioned emergency phone. His unease is settling now, spooling around his feet. He’s annoyed he let that dusty old fear get a grip again after all these years.

  ‘Does it work?’

  Ryan looks up, the handset to his ear. ‘Nah, just for show.’ He jams it back in the console. De Marchi moves to the far side of the lift to widen the space between them. They watch each other for a moment, bathed in the eerie light. It’s probably a routine blackout—not unusual this time of year—but Ryan is thinking about Waylo’s expression downstairs. He scans the ceiling and locates the hatch in case the lights go again. It’s not confined spaces that mess with him, it’s darkness and lack of air. The inside of the old fridge down the creek back home—

  A muffled bang in the elevator shaft snaps him back to the lift a split second before it jolts sideways. What the fuck? He stumbles and heat blasts through the tiny car. Ryan pulls De Marchi away from the lift doors and puts himself between her and the metal surface.

  ‘You okay?’

  Her back is flat against the mirrored wall. She’s breathing hard. The lift sways a little. ‘How far down was that?’ she asks.

  ‘Dunno.’ He checks the ceiling again. ‘We can’t stay in here.’ Ryan dumps the satchel on the floor and springs up the wall, his boots finding purchase on the handrail. He swings his weight around so his spine is pressed into the corner; when he trusts his balance he reaches for the ceiling hatch. A firm push is enough to dislodge it. It lands with a thud somewhere on the roof as Ryan feels around beyond the opening until he finds something solid to grab. The metal rail is warm from the blast.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He glances down at De Marchi. He’s sweating and wishing he’d taken off the stupid tie. ‘Finding a way out. We shouldn’t be too far from an access panel.’

  Ryan hoists himself up one-handed until he can get a better grip. His biceps burn with the effort but he gets his head and shoulders clear of the elevator car. The shaft is muggy and stinks of smoke and scorched concrete. Emergency lighting stains the darkness, enough for him to find what he’s looking for. He drops back inside.

  ‘A short climb and we’re out.’

  De Marchi is standing where he left her, gripping her elbows.

  ‘You know who I am, right?’ she asks.

  ‘So?’

  ‘You shouldn’t be in here with me.’

  He’s only half-tuned in, sizing up the hatch and running through what he needs to do to get her out. It’s only when he looks down that he sees the tightness around her eyes, the hard line of her mouth. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘The blackout, the explosion…’ A pause. ‘It could be about me.’

  Ryan thinks about why he’s in the building. Clearly there’s more going on than he’s been told, but it can’t be about her. She might be a pyro, but her old man’s a freaking war hero.

  ‘Did you miss the protesters on your way in?’ he says. ‘My money’s on them causing whatever’s going on downstairs and there’s no way they’re after you.’

  ‘Agitators don’t use explosives.’

  ‘Maybe they do now.’ Ryan wipes his hands on his pants. He’s figuring out how he’s going to get De Marchi out of the lift in that outfit she’s wearing when she speaks again.

  ‘You go.’

  He blinks. ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll wait here. You go get help.’

  ‘You’re not staying here.’

  ‘It’s safer—’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘—for you.’

  He opens his mouth, closes it again. She’s trying to protect him.

  ‘This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, okay?’ She’s getting impatient. ‘The last time—’

  Whoop-whoop-whoop.

  The emergency alarm drowns her out. Pax Fed Tower is under evacuation. And no easing into it with the ‘stay-calm- and-prepare-to-leave-your-workstation’ signal either—it’s gone straight to ‘get-the-fuck-out-of-here-right-now’. It must be pretty hairy downstairs.

  Ryan points to her and then to the ceiling. ‘Out,’ he shouts. The alarm is so loud he can’t hear himself. She wets her lips and shifts her weight again. He points at her and the ceiling hatch again, emphatic. Maybe whatever’s happening is about her, maybe it’s not, but he’s not letting her hang around on her own to find out. He does another round of pointing. ‘Now,’ he mouths at her.

  She waits another beat and then shakes out her arms like she’s limbering up. Ryan points to her high heels, signals for her to take them off. She shakes her head.

  Is she serious? They’re fucking shoes. He rips off his tie and fake ID and flings them aside, staring her down. How is he going to make this work? He undoes the top buttons on his shirt and rolls up his sleeves. His eyes fall on the satchel—

  Another blast sends them both sprawling sideways. Scorching heat rolls over the car. He snatches up the bag and empties it out. Sheets of meaningless paper hit the floor and fan out in all directions. Ryan holds out the satchel towards De Marchi. Points for her to put in her shoes. This time she doesn’t argue. She steps out of the heels and slips them in the suede bag.

  ‘And those,’ he mouths, gesturing to her stockings. He scoops up his tie and ID and jams them in with her shoes. De Marchi hesitates a second before bunching up h
er skirt. Ryan positions the satchel strap across his chest, watches her push down the nylons, one leg, then the other.

  The car shudders. Cables creak.

  He kneels down, links his fingers and cups his palms and nods to her.

  De Marchi readjusts her handbag and comes closer. She touches his shoulder to steady herself, but her skirt’s too tight and she can’t keep her balance long enough to step into his hands. Their eyes meet. De Marchi blows out her breath, shakier now. She hesitates, and then wrestles the fabric of her skirt up and over her knees, tries again. Her instep is warm against his palm, soft as velvet. Ryan should keep his eyes on her face but her bare thigh is centimetres away, pale and firm. Close enough for him to see a smattering of freckles above her kneecap even in the murky light. For a full three seconds Ryan forgets what he’s supposed to be doing.

  Fingertips dig into his collarbone.

  Focus, dickhead.

  Ryan boosts De Marchi and guides her through the hatch. This time he keeps his eyes to himself. When he looks up she’s disappeared.

  He waits for her to give him a signal she’s okay. She doesn’t. Ryan’s heart gives a hard thump. He doesn’t bother using the walls: he jumps from a standing start and hauls himself up through the hole. De Marchi is frozen against the cable rig—exactly where she shouldn’t be—knees drawn tight against her chest. Thighs again covered.

  ‘I hate heights.’ She doesn’t have to shout. The evacuation alarm is nowhere near as loud in the shaft.

  Ryan goes to the edge of the car and peers over. Definitely a shit-your-pants kind of drop. Far below, orange light flickers in the shadows. The stench of smoke is stronger now but there’s space out here and he can finally haul in a lungful of air.

  De Marchi scans the shaft above them. ‘Where are the doors?’

  ‘We’re riding the express. No doors for the first twenty-five floors, but there’s another way out.’ He points to the access panel three storeys up. ‘That’s how we get to it.’

  De Marchi’s gaze shifts to the steel ladder bolted to the concrete shaft. ‘You’re joking, right? How high are we?’

  He shrugs. They’re up at least twenty storeys, probably more, but Ryan can’t see how knowing that will help her. He holds out his hand but she doesn’t budge.

  ‘Move, or I’m throwing your shoes over the side.’ He lifts the satchel strap like he’s seriously thinking about it.

  She glares at him but lets him help her to her feet. Her skin is hotter now, clammy. ‘You weren’t so tough when the lights went out,’ she mutters and grabs his shirtsleeve to keep her balance.

  Ryan hides his surprise—was it that obvious?—and realises that if she can take the piss she’s doing okay. ‘Come on.’ He leads her to the edge of the elevator car. The good news is that the ladder is right there, an arm’s length away. The bad news is that De Marchi has to step out over the chasm to get to it. He positions himself behind her, ready to guide her onto the nearest rung. ‘I’m right here.’

  She pushes back against him. ‘Give me a sec.’

  His fingers find her hips and hold her in place. ‘We don’t have a sec. These lifts have safety brakes but they’re not indestructible. We get a big enough blast—’

  ‘Just wait.’ He can hear the anxiety now, feel her shaking. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Ryan.’ Shit. He should have given her the name on the ID. ‘Can we go now?’

  She takes a deep breath and reaches for the ladder.

  ‘Keep your eyes up.’ He doesn’t let go until she’s bearing her own weight, and then he climbs onto the rung below, shielding her body with his. ‘You can’t fall unless I do and I’m not going anywhere.’

  She climbs a rung, stops. He does the same.

  ‘Ryan.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Even in the shadows he can see her knuckles are white. ‘Those shoes are the most expensive things I own.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘In case something happens to me, I don’t want you to think—’

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen to you,’ he says.

  But he feels a prick of guilt because he’s the last person who can make that promise to her today.

  4

  Jules is trying not to panic—and only just succeeding.

  She’s scared she’s going to totally freak out. That she’ll hurt Ryan and they’ll both plummet down the shaft.

  The flaking ladder is rough against her skin and hard to grip. Worse than that, it’s metal. Five minutes into the climb and the current under her skin is almost unbearable. It’s always like this when she’s under pressure: harder to contain, like holding back a sneeze. She was doing okay today, even with the nerves and Bradford Paxton, but this is something else entirely.

  ‘Keep climbing, De Marchi. We’re nearly there.’

  They’re not, and that’s the problem. Her fingers are slick and she keeps stopping to wipe her palms on her skirt. Ryan is right with her. She pauses again, feels his heartbeat against her shoulderblade. Steady and controlled. She wonders what a guy like Ryan does at Pax Fed—a guy who wears heavy-soled boots and knows about access panels in elevator shafts; who’s quick to throw off his tie and is comfortable hanging from a wall twenty storeys up. It doesn’t quite fit and she doesn’t quite care: she’s too grateful having him between her and that head-spinning drop.

  When the lights went out she convinced herself it was a coincidence—blackouts happen, even at Pax Fed. But then the explosion came and she knew: he was here.

  Him.

  The one who knows the truth about her, who knows exactly what happened at the school two years ago because he caused it and filmed it. The man blackmailing her mother. He must have known she was coming here today. Does he want to hurt her? Set her up again?

  Either way she’s in trouble: trapped inside a Pax Fed building after an explosion. Bradford Paxton’s going to have a field day with this.

  ‘Keep going,’ Ryan says.

  She should warn Ryan, tell him what happens when she can’t control the current. But how can she explain it? And it’s not like he can get off the ladder in a hurry. She wipes her palm on her skirt again—it’s filthy now—and they resume climbing. Jules focuses on the concrete blocks, on drawing her energy back into herself and slowing her pulse; all the things she used to practise with her dad.

  The alarm stops so abruptly the silence hurts her ears.

  ‘You okay?’

  She doesn’t answer.

  ‘De Marchi—’

  A flare of irritation. ‘I have a first name.’

  ‘Are you okay, Julianne?’ His words warm her neck.

  ‘I’m concentrating.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Not falling.’

  ‘Look left.’

  She does as he says and the relief almost buckles her. They’re level with the access panel. But when she gets a good look at it her relief evaporates. It might be a flimsy piece of plywood but it’s fixed tight against the concrete.

  ‘How are we getting through that?’ And why didn’t she ask that question before they left the elevator car?

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  She looks over her shoulder and finds Ryan right there. Catches a waft of deodorant and sweat.

  ‘You’re carrying a screwdriver?’ she asks, sceptical.

  ‘Something like that.’ He nods up at the ladder. ‘I need you higher. Only for a minute.’

  She climbs three more rungs, feels exposed without him behind her. When she looks down, Ryan is hanging on to the ladder with one hand and reaching down to his boot. Her pulse stutters when she sees the blade. It’s short and deadly looking and there’s no mistaking it for anything other than a weapon. He leans out from the ladder and goes to work on the first screw, using the tip of the knife like a screwdriver. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t give an explanation.

  The first three screws are gone in under a minute. Ryan gets the blade under the wood and uses it to lever the other screw loose. His l
eg is hooked through the ladder and his ankle tucked under a rung to hold him in place. He’s sweating hard, his shirt clinging to his back and shoulders. The satchel with her shoes dangles over the chasm.

  The wood bends and groans as Ryan forces it outwards but he can’t get enough muscle behind it to finish the job. Jules grips the ladder harder, holding her breath. Holding the charge.

  ‘Screw it,’ Ryan mutters. He shifts his weight to the ladder and regroups. Glances up at her and away. The knife goes back into his boot. He climbs up another rung. ‘Nearly there.’

  The panel is warped, now bellying out from the wall. Ryan stretches out his leg to get his boot in behind it. He rests his forehead against Jules’ spine, kicks backwards, and the panel flies free. It sails out into the shaft, clipping the lift on the way down before it melts into flickering shadow. Ryan swings back and leans into her as he catches his breath. ‘Internal panel next and we’re outta here.’

  This time when he leans out, he flattens his face against the concrete and swings his fist into the access space. Jules hears something give inside.

  ‘Right. I’ll climb in, pull you after me.’

  Jules closes her eyes, trying not to think about the plummeting shaft beneath them. If something goes wrong while she’s hanging there over the void…

  Ryan tosses the satchel into the building ahead of him. ‘Ready?’

  Not even close. The charge is pulsing so strongly she’s surprised he can’t feel it through the ladder. He’s behind her again, radiating heat from exertion. He takes a moment to gather himself and then swings both legs up and into the opening like it’s the easiest thing in the world. A second later he lets go of the rung and wriggles backwards until more of him is inside the building than out.

  ‘Sit tight while I make sure we’re clear,’ Ryan says, and disappears.

  Sit tight?