Doggerland. Ben Smith

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СКАЧАТЬ housing, which took up an entire level of the rig; the pipes of the old man’s makeshift distillery snaking away into the dark. And down again to the dock, with its heavy gates enclosing a pool of still water. The dock was empty except for the maintenance boat, which was hoisted onto the slipway at the far end, charging off the main supply.

      The screens shifted to the cameras on the rig’s service platforms – the images grainy as dry putty. There had been a camera on the roof, but, like the buckled helipad and most of the aerials, antennae and satellite dishes, it was now defunct.

      And beyond the rig to the fields – over six thousand turbines grouped into huge arrays. There was no stretch of horizon that wasn’t planted, no hint of an edge or space beyond the churned air. In every image there was at least one turbine standing still and broken against the movement. At that moment, there were at least eight hundred and fifty of them scattered all over the farm. And more that were malfunctioning. It was hard to be sure, but the boy tried to keep track – it was their job to fix them.

      Not that there was much they could do. With the tools and spare parts available they could only make surface repairs – replace the smaller gear wheels, weld, grease, rewire. More and more often, the only option they had was to shut the turbine down, feather the blades, apply the brake and leave it to rust.

The farm was running at fifty-nine per cent. Sometimes it was better, sometimes it was worse. Sometimes they would get spares on the quarterly supply boat, but more often they didn’t. Sometimes the boy would pick a turbine and keep returning to it, on his own, until it was fixed. He’d once spent ten days going out to a single turbine, working through each component one by one. There had been something at almost every stage from control box to generator. When he’d finally got it functioning and checked the system, it turned out that the cable connecting the turbine to the grid had snapped somewhere along the seabed. Apparently, the old man had known about it for days, but hadn’t wanted to spoil the boy’s fun.

      The screens moved from field to field. The images were in colour, but the sea came through in greyscale, slapping at the bases of the towers.

      The old man looked from the boy to the bootlace and back to the boy. ‘Good catch,’ he said.

      The boy watched the monitors. The sea slapped and slapped. ‘Where do you reckon it came from?’ he said.

      The old man blinked. ‘What?’

      ‘The boot. The net was …’

      ‘What net?’

      ‘It was tangled in a net.’

      ‘You didn’t say anything about a net.’

      ‘It was just a net.’

      ‘You didn’t say anything about it.’

      The boy folded the bootlace over in his palm. ‘It was just a net. It had floats, weights tied in …’

‘Weights.’ The old man chewed the word over, leaned back and took a sip from his mug. ‘What kind of weights?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘You didn’t check?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘They were probably bricks.’

      ‘They weren’t the right shape.’

      ‘But you didn’t check.’

      ‘No.’

      The old man nodded slowly. ‘They were probably bricks.’

      The monitors switched from the galley to the rec room and back to the galley again. ‘I’d never use bricks,’ the old man said.

      ‘Okay,’ the boy said.

      ‘Okay?’ The old man leaned forward and tapped his finger against his temple. ‘Think about it. Where would I find bricks out here?’

      ‘I didn’t say you would find bricks out here.’

      ‘I wouldn’t find bricks out here.’

      ‘I know.’

      ‘Exactly.’ The old man raised his finger and swivelled his chair round to face the monitors again.

The boy could smell the salt from the bootlace, sticking to his skin. Salt had a very particular smell: sharp, metallic, but sometimes almost plant-like, as if it was alive rather than bits of mineral eroded from stone and dissolved in the sea. The old man swore it didn’t smell, but to the boy it was everywhere, tangy and brackish. Either that, or he needed to wash better. He tried to remember the feeling of any other substance – sand, mud, soil – but all he could think of was the sole of the boot, scoured clean. ‘It just made me think …’

      The chair creaked as the old man swivelled it back round. ‘Cogs,’ he said.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Heavy ones. They make the best weights.’

      The boy thought for a moment. ‘That’s what they were. Cogs.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘On the net. That’s what they looked like.’

      ‘What net?’

      ‘The net,’ the boy said. ‘The one we were just talking about.’

      The old man narrowed his eyes. ‘You said they were bricks.’

      ‘No, you said they were bricks.’

      The old man reached under the desk and brought up a rectangular container with a small tap in one corner. He filled his mug. A smell somewhere between anti-rust and generator coolant swept over the room. ‘How would I know what they were?’ he said. ‘I didn’t even see them.’

      One of the monitors showed nothing but the camera lens fogged with spray. The spray ran down and pooled in the corners of the screen, drip by drip by drip.

      ‘It must have come from somewhere, though,’ the boy said.

      The old man held his mug halfway up to his mouth and watched the boy over the rim. ‘Somewhere?’ he said eventually.

      ‘I mean …’

      ‘It could have come from anywhere,’ the old man said.

      ‘Anywhere?’

‘It’s just klote.’

      ‘I know, but …’

      ‘It’s just klote.’

      ‘But don’t you think …’

      ‘Think!’ The old man swung his hand in the direction of the monitors, slopping his drink over the desk. ‘What good do you think thinking does?’ He banged his mug down and began wiping the desk with his sleeve. ‘It’s just a boot. It’s got bugger all to do with him.’

      The boy’s chest tightened. He СКАЧАТЬ