NOW
The hatch door drops to the floor of the lift with a clang and I look up into a square of darkness, thinking of every movie I’ve seen where someone goes gallivanting into a lift shaft. It rarely ends well for them.
‘Nice work,’ I say.
‘Thanks.’ Marianne drops to the floor too.
The intercom buzzes. ‘Hello, are you there?’
‘He’s watching us,’ Marianne pants.
‘You talk to him,’ I say, because this Marianne Bond, who’s come out of nowhere with her mad Pilates skills, doesn’t need me to hold her hand.
Marianne takes a second to catch her breath, then presses the button. ‘What is it?’ she says.
‘Good news. The fault has been fixed. We’re running diagnostics right now, but we should have you moving in five minutes.’ The apologetic tone has been replaced by something closer to the voice an obstetrician might use when they present a new mother with their healthy baby.
Marianne unclenches, just a bit. ‘Seriously? Five minutes.’
‘That’s what I’m told. Might be sooner.’
Marianne looks at me.
‘What does “running diagnostics” mean, do you think?’ I ask, but she laughs.
‘Five minutes,’ she repeats, like I might have missed this crucial detail. ‘Might be sooner.’
I look up at the void. Horror movies have conditioned me to expect something scaly or oozing to drop into the lift. ‘Should we put that back in place?’
‘Let’s wait and see if five minutes is really five minutes this time,’ Marianne says. Clearly, she hasn’t entirely let go of her suspicions. ‘And hurry up with the story. If we really are getting out of here, I want to know who did it first.’
‘Who do you think did it?’ I ask, curious.
‘Farnoosh seems dodgy,’ Marianne says. ‘She was the only one at the party who was definitely outside alone at the same time as Felix, so she had the opportunity.’
‘She did,’ I say.
‘I’m right?’
‘I’m not saying anything.’
Then, obviously, I say a whole lot, because she’s right about one thing: I need to get a move on.