Page 180

Harrison stared upwards.

The sound came again, faster this time, moving across different pitches as the strikes travelled through the ductwork above him.

Not random.

Rhythmic.

Harrison’s heart slammed against his ribs.

Jake drummed on everything. Pub tables. Steering wheels. Scaffolding poles. His own thighs whenever he was thinking. Harrison had watched him do it often enough to know that rhythm existed inside the man whether he had a drum kit in front of him or not.

“Jake!”

A frantic barrage of metallic strikes rattled through the ceiling.

“Oh, thank God.”

Harrison ran for the stairwell. The fourth-floor landing continued upwards to the heavy fire door he’d noticed earlier, and this time he shoved through it onto the roof.

“Keep doing it!”

Another burst answered him and he ran towards the sound across the roof. But three strides in, the roof gave beneath his right foot.

“Fuck!”

He threw himself sideways, barely getting his weight clear before the felt sagged beneath his shoe and the timber flexed sickeningly underneath.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He scrambled upright, heart hammering, and swept the torch across the roof. The beam highlighted sections of stripped felt, exposed timber and fluorescent orange markings. Rotten parts of the roof ready to collapse under the tiniest pressure.

Shit.

Another burst of drumming came from somewhere ahead. Quieter this time.

Harrison stilled. “Jake?”

Three strikes answered him.

Not the frantic barrage from before. Slower. Weaker. And every trace of relief vanished. Wherever he was, he was losing time. Maybe air. Maybe his fucking life!

So he yelled, “Keep fucking hitting something!”

A pause stretched long enough to make Harrison’s stomach turn.

Then—

Tak. Tak.

Fuck.

Harrison swept his torch across the roof and the beam caught the corrugated-metal plant room at the far end.

“I’m coming, baby.”

Then he moved, picking his way across the roof with the torch angled at the ground, forcing himself to watch every step. He had no idea how much of the surface he could trust, but turning back wasn’t an option. Not when the drumming had dwindled to those two weak strikes.

When he reached the plant room, he yanked open the maintenance door. Heat hit him first, thick and stale, carrying the smell of dust and old machinery.