As my breathing starts to settle I become aware of the fact my mouth is utterly dry. I need liquid. My head’s pounding. Limbs shaky. As soon as Mark’s moved on I explore with my hands. There’s a torch here somewhere, which I used to peer deep into the Stang’s engine cavity. If only I can find it. I’m on my hands and knees, starting to feel faint, and I sweep the ground like I’m looking for landmines. The floor’s rough; there’s grit, a metal bolt, unknown objects. As the search goes on I become bolder, until something jabs right into the fleshy end of my finger. I just manage to muffle my cry of pain and surprise. Finally my fingers clasp the cold aluminium case, it wasn’t where I thought I’d left it, and I flip it on. I have light. I check what it was that punctured my finger. The sharp point of a one-handed saw.

Next up, stop the dehydration. I hunt down my two remaining cans of Red Bull and crack them open, downing one, then the other. The voices are coming back now, and I hear them agree on a price as they walk past. It’s considerably less than what I pay. I think I should take this up with Mark next time. Then I see the absurdity of that thought. I have far more pressing concerns than Mark Liu’s flexible pricing structure.

I flip the torch off and sink into the darkness, hoping it will help me think. I try to go over everything, right from the start, and tease out anything which will help me find Klaasen. Because that’s the only way this ends.

What it comes down to is him or me. I’m not ready to roll over. Not yet.