The office is as you remember it: lots of filing cabinets and cupboards. You open a few, and there’s nothing but receipts and invoices, all meticulously alphabetised and sorted away. In Metcalf’s desk, there’s a calculator and some paperclips, a few pens, a desk diary and some post-it notes. It’s just a desk. This is just an office. If sellotape was going to help, you’d be fine, but the things that might save you – a phone, a rubber dinghy, a flare gun, even a life jacket – are in short supply.
You slump into Metcalf’s chair, put your phone on the desk under the torch beam and prise the back off. It’s soaking inside. The battery drips as you take it out. You know from experience that with ideal conditions – putting everything in a bowl of dried rice somewhere warm – takes at least a couple of days. And your conditions are far from ideal.
While kicking the door through warmed you up, sitting still is cooling you down again. And you can hear the tell-tale sound of running water again. You’re on the first floor. How is this even possible? There’s no way it could have reached this high up. You pick up your torch and shine it through the hole in the door. You can see ripples. You’re going to have to move again.