Offshore (23 page)

“
See, Jock, there really is more than one way to skin a
cat.”

He
turned off the gas valve and the extractor fan, couldn’t risk a
draught blowing the flame out, and exited the welding hut with the
repaired chair, closing the door softly but firmly behind
him.

A minute later, with a soft
whoomph
, the paraffin and meths mixture set
alight and enveloped McAllister in a blanket of steady blue
flame.

The fire
would take hold and progress solidly, the enclosed poorly
ventilated space acting like an oven, increasing the temperature to
gradually bake and consume all the fuel and oxygen within, and then
desirous of the need to feed its single toxic lung, it would break
from its confines and the fun would begin.

Euterich, as McAllister, would of course be one of the crew
sent to tackle the blaze valiantly and heroically, to save the
entire place from certain destruction, only to have their gallant
triumph shattered when they found a body inside the burned out
shell, baked to a crisp and melted to the floor.

He
would, of course, express his own brand of disbelief and revulsion,
and would of course join in the pondering as to whom the poor
unfortunate deceased could possibly be. Why, shock horror, the only
one missing from the group, who else. The detestable Desmond
Reynolds.

Grinning
like a naughty child who had just set up some especially devious
practical joke, Euterich pressed the button to call the service
elevator.

After
delivering Eddie’s repaired chair to the Control Room, Euterich
slipped into the games room, just as Eddie was strolling through
the empty lounge toward the mess, ready to eat and expecting to
join the short queue to be served.

No smell
of cooking met him. The meal should be ready by now, it was gone
six. Who was down for kitchen duty? He pulled his notebook from his
pocket. Reynolds and Brewer.

Brewer
was there, a chef’s apron protecting his everyday clothes,
wrestling a tin opener around the rim of a huge can of macaroni
cheese. But where was that idler Reynolds? Shirking in the
pantry?

“
Before you ask, it’s going to be at least another quarter
hour,” said Brewer.

“
Where’s Daz? He’s supposed to be–”

Brewer
frowned. “Supposed to be, but as you can see, isn’t.” He peeled
back the rim of the can. “And although I am perfectly capable of
opening a tin and warming stuff up, being on my own makes for a
delay, so a second pair of hands would be useful if you could
rustle some up.”

“
I’ll see what I can do,” said Eddie. “Where is everyone
else?”

“
Games room.”

Eddie
ambled the short distance across the lounge and through the swing
door, in time to see McDougal throw his dart at the board, scoring
a double top.

“
Get in theer ya bastard!”

He
waited for the cheer to die down.

“
I hate to interrupt your fun and games folks, but has
anyone seen Daz? He should’ve been on kitchen duty. Dr Brewer’s in
there on his own.”

Everyone
looked at each other, and then back to Eddie, shaking their
heads.

“
No’ seen him all day,” said McDougal. “No’ that I’d
particularly want tae.”

“
Anyone else?”

“
Nope.”

“
I’ll swing for him, I swear I will,” muttered Eddie.
“Nothing but a pain in my arse any day of the week.”

He
pressed the talk button on his radio and called for Reynolds. No
reply. Again. Silence.

“
Bloody hell!”

Lydia
took her turn at throwing her darts, missing the board with two,
scoring a treble five with her third.

“
That’s me out,” she said, retrieving the darts and handing
them back to McDougal. “Looks like you win … again. I’ll go and
give Lawrence a hand until Reynolds get here,” she said to Eddie.
“But I’m not doing the dishes. I’ve had my turn this week
already.”

When she
had gone, McDougal burst into derogatory sniggering. “Couldn’t hit
a barn door side on that one,” he said. “Pity we weren’t playing
for money. I’d have cleaned her out.”

“
What were you playing for?” asked Eddie.

“
Laundry,” said Cameron. “She lost. Six men’s skiddy
undercrackers, filthy stinking socks that can walk by themselves,
and everyone’s sweaty overalls. That’s her day sewn up tomorrow. I
hope she’s got a nose peg and rubber gloves. She’s going to need
‘em.”

More
laughter.

Bastards.

Chapter 26

It took
half an hour of steady burning in the enclosed space to build up
enough heat to destabilise the acetylene in the tank.

The
resulting explosion created a perfect ball of fire which lit up
Bravo like a second sun as it carried the roof of the welding hut
over two hundred feet skyward, along with myriad other pieces of
shrapnel to be rained down onto rig and sea, roof and deck, when
gravity once more took control.

Simultaneous waves of pressure and sound assaulted the window
of the games room, making it bow and shimmer, and the sonic boom
had all hands first ducking for cover, then clamouring for the
source of the blast.

A
secondary explosion, the tank of oxygen obliterating itself, hurled
a chunk of metal against the window with enough force to punch a
hole in the outer pane and crack the inner.

Cameron
clamped his hands on Lydia’s shoulders and yanked her away from it,
before putting himself protectively between her and any more
danger.

“
Fucking hell! FIRE!” cried Shaw, spying the pall of black
smoke snaking up from behind the monstrous mud pump on the far side
of the deck. As if a switch had been flicked, he took charge and
rattled out his instructions.

“
Cam, Spanner, Jock, go get your gear on. I’ll get Mr
Capstan. Miss Ellis, grab the doc and make your way to the safe
point. Stay there until I or the boss tells you otherwise.
GO!”

The boom
jolted Eddie to his feet and out of his cabin, to be almost knocked
back inside again by the designated fire crew racing to tackle the
blaze.

“
What the hell was that?”

“
Just coming to get you, boss,” said Shaw, grabbing his
sleeve and urging him along. “Fire! In the welding hut!”

Eddie
followed hot on Shaw’s heels, taking the stairs two at a time down
to the Fire Control booth where McAllister, McDougal and Cameron,
were already fitting their fireproof boots and aluminium coated
fire fighting suits, pulling up silver leggings, shrugging the
braces over their shoulders, and pressing the Velcro strips on
their jackets closed.

Shaw
checked the air tanks of the self contained breathing apparatus as
the men fitted their full face masks, tightening the head straps to
make them airtight. Lung demand valves in place, fresh air flowed.
On went hoods, gauntlets and helmets.

Eddie,
acting as deployment officer, took the BA control board from the
wall. He checked the information on each man’s tank sentinel before
taking the ID tally, filling in the information and fitting it into
a slot on the board, making special note of the time. Each had
thirty minutes of air and he would allow them not a minute
more.

Essentials complete, he sent the team on their
way.

The
walls of the roofless hut were peppered with shrapnel holes and the
door hung out of kilter on its top hinge. Copious black smoke and
tongues of orange and yellow flame poured from every
aperture.

The
silver clad trio fought the blaze with everything they learned from
their industry training courses, hammering it into submission with
high power water jets and dousing sprays. Eventually clouds of
steam replaced smoke, until that too dispersed to reveal the scale
of destruction.

The roof
and the upper part of the walls of the hut were gone, blasted to
oblivion. Nothing more substantial than the doorway, the lower
three feet of wall and the bolts fastening them to the deck
remained. Inside were only pieces of twisted metal and a pile of
sodden black ash. The fire-fighters continued to damp down until
they were satisfied every ember had been extinguished.

With
less than five minutes of air left they removed their breathing
apparatus, made up their equipment and stood down.

Eddie
released the sweating and exhausted men to change into their
regular clothes and take some rest, before advising Lydia and
Brewer they could now safely return to the lounge.

Then he
and Shaw went through the regulation post operational
procedures.

They
checked the equipment and clothing for damage before stowing it in
lockers, and while Shaw cleaned the breathing apparatus masks and
fitted fresh tanks ready for next time, Eddie made all the notes
necessary to complete an incident report.

It was
full dark when he and Shaw donned hard hats and purple nitrile
gloves, and under the harsh glare of deck lights and mobile arcs,
began the investigation.

“
Smell that?” said Eddie.

Shaw
took a deep inhalation. “Acetylene?”

“
Yep. And?”

“
Paraffin, and …” Another sniff. “… trace of
meths?”

“
Three out of three.”

Using
additional light from their torches, they carefully picked their
way further into the wrecked welding hut to dig around in the ashes
and search out the seat of the fire.

“
Something here,” called Shaw, and got down for a closer
look. “Oh, holy shit.” He got up again. “I think you’d better see
this, skip.”

Eddie
made his way over to where Shaw stood.

“
What have you found?”

“
This.” Shaw trained his torch beam on the lump at his feet.
“It’s Daz isn’t it?”

“
Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“
Who else could it be?”

The body
lay on its side, curled like a comma, knees bent, both arms
contracted in a typical pugilistic attitude as the muscles beneath
coagulated and shortened with the intense heat, blackened skin
shrunk so tight against the underlying structures that it had split
and cracked and flaked away, exposing bones and teeth
beneath.

The
clothing had been burned off, no hair remained, and the eyes, those
once sharp cold grey eyes full of indolence and mischief, were no
more than black pits lined with globs of gelatinous poached egg
white, their substance boiled away.

Shaw got
down again. “Look here,” he said, indicating the body’s wrists with
a coloured finger.

Clearly
visible in the film of carbonised skin were the slits deliberately
cut by Euterich, opened by the heat into wide grinning
gaps.

“
Are they what I think they are?”

Eddie
shook his head. “Can’t think of anything else they could be, can
you?”

Shaw
stared at him, then frowned. “Nah. It’s got to be something else.
Has to be.”

“
Why?”

“
Because I can’t believe he would … do that. Not to himself
… not Daz. He’s not the type.”

“
And what type, exactly, would that be Matt? How well do any
of us know what goes on in somebody else’s head?”

Shaw had
no answer, only another question.

“
So if he did … that … who set the fire?”

“
He must have. Probably wanted to make sure, one way or the
other.”

Eddie
got to his feet and cleared his throat, desperate to get the taste
of vaporised body fat and hydrocarbons out of this mouth. Shaw was
still staring down at the body, mesmerised.

“
You okay, Matt?”

Silence.

“
Matt?”

Shaw
turned frightened eyes to his boss.

“
Yeah,” he said, unconvincingly.

Give him something to do, before he starts thinking too
much.

“
You up to doing something for me?”

“
Yeah, sure. What do you want?”

“
I need you to go find the prof and ask him if you can
borrow his camera. We need it to take pictures, for the record; for
the cops and the coroner. To make it official, you
know?”

“
Yes boss.”

“
And Matt?”

“
Yes boss?”

“
Probably best not to tell him what we want it for,
eh?”

“
You know what he’s like. He’s gonna want to know all the
ins and outs, and he’ll know straight off if I’m lying? You know,
like Mum vision?”

“
Then improvise. Tell him you want to photograph the moon or
something. When we’ve done, we’ll take a photo of the moon, and you
haven’t lied. Okay?”

A weak
smile. “Yes boss.”

Shaw
left to fetch the camera, leaving Eddie alone with the baked
corpse.