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Chapters (52)
  1. Title
  2. Copyright
  3. About the Book
  4. About the Author
  5. Also By
  6. Contents
  7. Dedication
  8. Roll Call
  9. A Brief History of the Time Wars
  10. Jane
  11. Luke
  12. Matthew
  13. 1
  14. 2
  15. 3
  16. 4
  17. 5
  18. 6
  19. 7
  20. 8
  21. 9
  22. 10
  23. 11
  24. 12
  25. 13
  26. 14
  27. 15
  28. 16
  29. 17
  30. 18
  31. 19
  32. 20
  33. 21
  34. 22
  35. 23
  36. 24
  37. 25
  38. 26
  39. 27
  40. 28
  41. 29
  42. 30
  43. 31
  44. 32
  45. 33
  46. 34
  47. 35
  48. 36
  49. 37
  50. Epilogue
  51. Author’s Note
  52. A Note on Recruitment

She hit the other control. The incineration chute opened. She reached inside to place the knife in the receptacle provided and a hand came over her shoulder and roughly grasped her wrist. A voice said, ‘Oh, no, you don’t, missie.’

In her shock she let go of the knife which clattered into the receptacle. The lid came down automatically and the red light came on.

Someone swore horribly. Another voice was shouting, ‘Shut down all the incineration chutes on the walkway level.’

He was gripping her wrist so hard it hurt. There were voices all around. People shouting. The medics turned up. People shouted at each other not to stand in the blood. She was jostled in the crush but never once did they let go of her.

And then security turned up.

And everyone was looking at her.

Because everyone thought she’d killed Sarah Smith.

23

23

Jane had no idea what to do. What to say. What could she say? People were bombarding her with questions. She couldn’t focus on any one person. Voices came and went. Except for the one in her head, repeating, ‘What have you done? What have you done?’ over and over again.

If they failed to find the knife in the garbage incinerator, then she would be their prime suspect. If they did find the knife, then Luke would be implicated and she would be found guilty of destroying evidence. Which she was. Whatever she said could only make things worse. She desperately needed time to stop and think.

They’d touched on basic interrogation techniques during her training. More specialised instruction would be given to those who made security their career choice after their gruntwork. She knew from the sessions she had attended that she wouldn’t be granted the luxury of time. There would be no time to consider her strategy. No time to pull herself together. No time to get her story straight in her head. No time to think about what she could and couldn’t say. No time to take a breath and face the situation calmly. They would deliberately hustle her. They would move her from room to room with no explanation. A number of interrogators would work on her. Sometimes together – sometimes alone. They would never stop. They would hammer away at her. Hour after hour. There would be no rest. No respite. There would be no food. No water. Toilet breaks only after she’d humiliatingly wet herself in desperation. They’d caught her at the scene of a murder with the body of an officer at her feet and the murder weapon in her hand. They’d caught her disposing of the weapon. They would keep on at her as her story floundered and she contradicted herself in exhaustion and eventually confessed to anything just so they would leave her alone.