by Joe Ducie
Drake swallowed hard and felt a flutter of excitement rise up from his stomach and into his throat. He shivered as goosebumps rippled up and down his arms. ‘Thanks.’
‘Give me a week or so. I’ll need to gather a few things, then explain to you how hard this is going to be.’
‘How you gonna do it?’
‘You can’t just hit it with a hammer, okay? Although I’m sure you’ve considered it. Best that’ll do is shatter your wrist. I’m going to have to think about it and … Look, just leave it for now, Will. I said I’ll do it, I just need time.’
Time was the one thing Drake had in buckets, and the one thing on which he was running short. But he kept his peace for now, thanked Tristan again, and rolled over in his bunk.
As always, sleep was a long time in coming.
That Saturday was the first rigball game of the winter season. Drake’s welts and bruises had barely had time to purple from the training session the night before, but he was excited – and a touch nervous – to get out on the field and play the game properly, against Grey and his thugs.
He’d felt the eyes of the entire cafeteria on him that morning at breakfast. Whispers and half-heard rumours suggested that there was quite a betting pool on the match, and particularly on whether Grey would pummel Drake or vice versa.
‘Yeah,’ Mario said, as they warmed up on the side of the field just after lunch. Three hours were set aside for the game, a rare treat and break from work hours. ‘The odds on you aren’t good, mi amigo. I got three Snickers bars says Grey pounds you into the ground.’
‘You bet against me?’
Mario nodded and laughed. ‘I may have been caught with the murder weapon in my hand, but I’m not an idiot.’
Grey and his team of five large boys were half the field away, getting ready up on the tiered seating. They were laughing and joking, pointing at Drake and his team. Christ, look at the size of him … Grey had torn the sleeves from a black jumpsuit, and his thick arms bulged with muscle. It had been two weeks since Drake had last seen him, and he’d doubled in size. That’s impossible. More and more, Drake wondered just what was involved in ‘advanced lessons’.
The inmates from both platforms were allowed to attend the games, and Drake realised with a mild curiosity that, on the other side of the field, a team of girls were slipping into the safety gear and picking up racquets. With each game running an hour, according to Tommy, the girls played first. They had a much more civilised match, as Captain Tommy put it, with four teams instead of just two, which actually lent a better structure for a season of games.
The boys, on the other hand, could only ever field two teams – no one else wanted to go up against Grey, let alone actually beat the bully. Where the girls had a proper league, the boys’ matches came down to who could hit the hardest and best out of the seven-game season.
Drake donned his helmet, leaving it unbuckled for now, and sat on the first row of seating next to Mario and the lads. He was more anxious than excited now, as the guards shepherded the rest of the inmate population up from their respective platforms and they began to fill the seats.
There was a fair turnout on both sides of the field. Drake estimated that most of the Rig’s inhabitants had come up for the game. The boxed seating behind the far goal at the north end of the field held a slew of guards and some of the prison’s staff. Warden Storm sat laughing with Doctor Elias and Brand in the centre of the box. Other guards positioned themselves on duty around the edge of the playing field. Drake scanned the box for Doctor Lambros, but didn’t see the tiny woman.
He also spent a few minutes scanning the girls’ seating, looking for the blaze of auburn hair that belonged to Irene. She wasn’t there, as far as he could tell. Perhaps she’s playing? Last in a long line of inmates, Michael Tristan wandered up, shoulders slumped and hands stuffed in his pockets. He gave Drake half a smile through pursed lips and chuckled.
‘Good luck, Will,’ he said, and climbed up a row to sit behind Tommy’s team. ‘I’ve only been to one of these games, but I do remember Grey liked to go for the knees.’
Mario winced and rubbed at his own knee, glancing over his shoulder at Tristan. ‘Ain’t that the truth …’
‘Thanks for coming out,’ Drake said. The butterflies in his stomach felt like they’d been doused in petrol and set alight. He fidgeted in his seat, more than anxious just to get playing.
But the girls played first, and when the match started, Drake got a good look at just how hard and brutal the sport of rigball could be. He didn’t know or recognise any of the girls as they arrayed themselves across the field, one team wearing red, the other green. The core of the team aligned on the centre circle, waiting for the guard who was refereeing the match to drop the magnetised ball.
The game began with the blowing of a loud air horn.
The Reds threw themselves into the Greens with such force that it was clear from the start who was the su---perior team. Drake watched the mess unfold, as the Reds swiped and swapped the ball with the ease of long practice. By halftime they were six goals to nothing, and had bloodied the Greens quite harshly. It took a lot for a foul to be called in rigball, and by full time the Reds had pulled away twelve to three.
It was all over at the sound of the air horn. The Greens limped from the field utterly defeated, bleeding and, in one case, cradling a broken wrist.
The other two teams in the girls’ league played next, and this game was much more evenly matched. The contact and body checking was faster, harder, and spots of bright red blood lay cooling on the concrete field before too long. Dressed in red and green jumpsuits again, the game ended in a two-to-two tie. Both teams stumbled from the field to steady applause from the staff box and the inmates in the stands.
‘God, I’d let her hit me with a racquet all day long,’ Mario said, nudging Drake in the ribs and pointing to one of the Reds. Drake was a little surprised to see it was the girl from his flight in, Strawberry Blonde, who had cried the whole way and most of the first night. Life on the Rig had toughened her up, it seemed.
A ten-minute break allowed Tommy’s team to check their gear and slip into their pads. Drake wasn’t sure if it was just him, but he could sense that the first two games had only been a warm-up for the crowd. The real game, his game, was about to begin – and the sharks in the stands could smell blood.
Moving in somewhat of a nervous daze, Drake followed the rest of his team out onto the field and took up his position on the wing, just like in practice. Grey’s team lined up against them and looked intimidating in their dyed black jumpsuits. Drake was breathing hard and only remembered at the last minute before the ball was dropped to turn his racquet on.
The horn blew.
The game began.
Drake, new to the game and only just familiar with the rules, clung to his wing. He took large sidesteps down the field as possession moved one way or the other, keeping his racquet at the ready. The rigball sang as it zoomed across the field, clanging from racquet to racquet. Grey’s team were brutal.
For their part, Tommy and the lads gave as good as they got, in most cases. None of them got closer than a half a metre to Grey himself – and none of them dared make contact. The large, pig-faced bully wore a smirk the entire first half, tossing the rigball with casual ease halfway down the field with each throw. He made it look effortless. Drake was sweating and his arm was stinging just from the half-dozen throws he’d had. A near-miss with the opposing wingman almost gave Mario a black eye. He hit the ground hard and came up laughing.
‘Drake!’ Tommy cried, and tossed the rigball down the wing.
Drake’s racquet thrummed as the ball slammed into his net. He turned and ran – heading for goal with three of Grey’s black-suited thugs on his tail. Mario darted ahead of him, gesturing with his racquet.
‘Pass it, Will!’
The referee, running along as well, blew a shrill whistle and awarded a foul to Grey’s team.
Drake came to a stop, co
nfused.
‘You have to pass,’ Mario said, shaking Drake’s helmet. ‘Three seconds, or you foul. You pass!’
Damn. Drake had forgotten one of the more simple rules. He shook his head, ignored the jeers from the crowd, and ran back up the wing as Grey’s team took possession.
From there, the game descended into a grudge match, with all but Grey open for full contact. The referee blew more fouls in the next ten minutes than in the entirety of the girls’ games, and they had been cruel enough.
Despite the beating Drake’s team took in the first half, the score was tied at nil all when the guard blew the air horn, signalling halftime. Tommy limped off the field with a goofy smile on his face. Mario’s teeth were bloody from a split lip. Greg and Neil had matching black eyes. Emir was uninjured, as was Drake, but that had been more from luck than anything else. None of the team had given Drake much in the way of possession, after that first error.
‘Why the hell are you still smiling?’ Drake asked Mario, as the Spanish boy swashed water around his mouth and spat it on the ground.
‘We’re still tied.’ Mario beamed. ‘If we can keep this up, it’ll be the first time Grey hasn’t won. A tie’s better than losing, yeah?’
Drake leant against his racquet and shrugged. Grey was whispering furiously to his team in a tight-knit circle, still on the field. He sensed Drake’s gaze and gave him a glare that should have sent the Rig frozen into the sea. ‘I guess, but what’ll he do if we actually win?’
Mario seemed to consider this for the first time. He blinked and shook his head. ‘He’ll take it out on you, mi amigo.’
The air horn blew again five minutes later and the teams took to the field, switching goals and, for Drake, wings. He clenched the racquet hard, intending to make this half count. He wanted to beat Grey, for no other reason than to take away the bully’s perfect record. Never mind the knife attack, this was about something more important – showing the muscle-bound goon that he didn’t scare everyone on the Rig.
Whatever Grey had fed his team during halftime, they had absorbed and now vented against Tommy’s team with an all-out assault. Drake was fairly safe, stuck on the wing, as most of the action in a game of rigball centred around the three key players in midfield – the offence.
Still, he was thrown to the ground more than once. He grazed his knuckles on the elbow pads of the opposing wingman, and took a racquet to the cheek, splitting the skin below his eye. Mario was pummelled into the ground, laughing every time and somehow managing to claw back to his feet after every knock.
Drake intercepted a toss from Grey in the last two minutes of the game. The scores were still tied, and the cool air blowing in off the Arctic Ocean felt hot with tension. He tossed the ball across field to Greg, and the first light above their goal lit up.
‘To me!’ Tommy roared, further downfield.
Two lights.
Mario, fast as lightning, darted under Grey’s large arm, narrowly missing the blunt end of Grey’s racquet, and ran across the concrete surface. ‘I’m open!’
Tommy hurled the ball, his aim perfect, and it sailed into Mario’s racquet.
Three lights.
Mario spun on his heel and pelted down the field, covering the last five metres or so before the goal. Drake had fallen back after his pass, guarding his wing and blocking one of Grey’s players from joining the attack that was about to go down in the goal square.
The crowd whooped and cheered as Mario raised his racquet. All that stood between him and the goal was the keeper. He threw the rigball with an almighty cry and it sailed towards the net.
Somehow, Grey was there. The ball flew into his racquet and the lights above the goal reset. A murmur of disappointment shuddered through the crowd.
Grey set off down the field, running hard. He passed the ball right on the cusp of three seconds to the wingman opposite Drake. Neil grappled with him and took an elbow to the face for his trouble. His nose gushed blood, but the referee called no foul.
Drake took lunging steps up the field, light on his toes, keeping parallel with the wingman. Grey had come up the middle, as the wingman with possession hurled the ball over Grey’s head, to the man Drake was marking. He caught it solidly, edging Drake’s racquet out with a swift elbow to the ribs.
‘Back to me!’ Grey roared, his voice a dull bellow that echoed across the field and the stands. For all his muscle, Grey could really move.
The ball sailed into his racquet and that was three passes. Grey’s team had the chance to score with seconds left on the clock.
Drake felt a surge of anger and bared his teeth in a snarl. He swept the legs out from under the wingman who had just thrown to Grey, leapt over him as he fell, and darted after the large bully. Grey was fast – but Drake, at least fifty kilos lighter – was faster.
He got out in front of Grey as he made for the goal. Emir stood at the ready, knees bent and eyes focused, but Drake stepped between them – racquet raised.
For the smallest fraction of time, the space between heartbeats, Drake and Grey locked eyes. The game was about to go either way. In that split second, Drake saw twin points of actual fire flare in Grey’s eyes. Pinpoints of shining crimson swam across his pupils.
Then they connected.
Grey tackled Drake with the force of a freight train hitting a soup can. Drake was literally thrown up and off his feet. His legs flailed uselessly, scrambling for purchase, as the air was forced from his lungs in a violent gust. He flipped head over heels, saw the ground and the stands of gaping inmates, before gravity decided to switch back on and he hit the concrete hard. Drake landed on his head. He heard a loud crack, thought for a moment it was his neck, but then his helmet fell away, split cleanly down the middle.
His eyes … Drake thought, gasping for air. What the hell?
Grey slammed the rigball into the goal a second before the air horn blew announcing full time and the crowd exploded. Half the boys in the stands were up stamping their feet and hollering. Drake heard one or two chants, drowned in curse words, directed his way. He laughed them off, chuckling as his abused lungs managed to suck in a mouthful or two of cool, salty air.
The game was over.
Tommy’s team, and Drake, had lost.
11
Magnets
‘Good afternoon, Will,’ Doctor Lambros said. Beams of bright sunlight shone through the blinds behind her desk, illuminating the room. ‘You’re looking a little rough around the edges today. How’d you get that cut on your cheek?’
Drake took a seat in Lambros’ office, inhaling the smell of her old books and polished mahogany desk. ‘Rigball,’ he said, and stroked the scab under his eye. Work in Tubes the last few days had been torture – he’d gotten a lot more bruises and scrapes during the game than he’d realised.
At least Tommy and the lads didn’t blame him for failing to stop Grey during the dying seconds. None of them could say, as Drake flipped through the air and cracked his helmet in half, that he hadn’t tried.
Doctor Lambros shook her head. ‘Such a violent sport. I’ve told the warden that it does no good, just gives you boys an excuse to batter each other, but he’s of a mind that it’s teambuilding.’
‘I didn’t see you at the game.’
‘Why would I want to see it?’ She leant forwards in her chair and removed her glasses. ‘Really, Will, do I strike you as the type to enjoy blood sport?’
She honestly did not. To Drake, Doctor Lambros had become the only person on the Rig, save perhaps Tristan, that he thought he might trust. And he wasn’t sure about Tristan – he was a nice enough person, but weak. He thought he belonged here, and that was something that would never sit right with Drake. No one belonged in this place, so far removed from the real world and … and oversight. The Alliance could do whatever they wanted out here, away from prying eyes. The guards – Brand, at least – were ex-private military and had no trouble beating the inmates. If Drake thought he had to spend close to five more years her
e then he might just try the swim.
‘What’s on your mind this week, Will?’ the doctor asked. ‘You’re closing in on three months now. I’m pleased to see you’ve taken a lot of steps in the right direction. We can probably look at pushing our meetings back to once a month now.’
Drake was surprised to find he felt a sliver of disappointment. He quite liked these meetings, and not just because he got out of work for an hour or two. He had wondered – when not thinking of escape – what it was about the small psychologist that put him almost at ease. It had come to him last night, as he lay awake into the early hours of the morning. Doctor Acacia Lambros reminded him of his mother. The way she spoke, the way she smiled.
‘If you think so,’ he said.
‘I remember our first meeting. You were full of fire and anger about being sent here to the Rig. It’s good to see you’ve settled into the routine, somewhat. No more thoughts of a daring escape? You can’t fly out of here, you know. And no more fighting?’
Drake looked down at his left arm, at the crooked pink scar tissue that contrasted glaringly against his dark skin. He’d yet to pay Grey back for that. ‘No, just rigball.’
‘Which amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it?’
‘I –’ Drake considered, then nodded. ‘I’d say that’s a pretty fair assessment, actually.’
‘He sees the light!’ Doctor Lambros clapped. ‘Now, talk to me about what’s on your mind?’
‘Alan Grey,’ he said, and was surprised he said anything at all. Apart from Tristan and a few of the Tubes crew, Drake hadn’t voiced his concerns about Grey and his gang to anyone.
‘You know I can’t talk about any other inmates, Will,’ she said, but there was an edge to her voice.
Drake leant back in his chair. He was willing to bet any hope of escape from the Rig that Alan Grey wasn’t one of the good doctor’s clients. In fact, he’d take that bet a step further and wager none of Grey’s gang attended these sessions either. Which left him wondering …