WITH NO IDEA how long he had been unconscious, Quaint was rudely awakened some time later by Butter slapping his cheeks, calling his name repeatedly. Immediately after the spark of life reignited Quaint's hazy mind, a multitude of questions jostled each other in an undulating swarm, all vying to be answered first. Where am I? Why is it so dark? Who were those men? Am I dead? No, I can't be…I'm in too much pain to be dead.
'Boss, please wake!' called Butter through the darkness.
'I'm here, Butter…I'm…awake,' said Quaint hoarsely, his eyes slowly opening.
'I am so pleased you are alive!' said Butter elatedly.
'As am I, my friend.'
Butter squeezed his hand tighter. 'How are you?'
'I've been better.'
'I am so sorry, boss; there were too many in number. They were victorious.'
'Yes,' said Quaint, rubbing at his ribs. 'I noticed that part.'
'I only woke myself a short while ago.'
'Where the hell are we?'
'I…I am unsure, boss. It is so dark.'
'And cold…it's blood-chillingly cold!' snapped Quaint, sitting up sharply. Immediately, he felt his body scream at him, and he clutched at his ribs. 'Guess…I shouldn't have got up so quick…Head's swishing around like a fish in a bowl…and speaking of fish! From the stench of it, I'd presume we're still in the market…in that large metal container we saw earlier. From the sound of the machinery, my guess was spot on. It's an industrial ice box…to freeze the fish solid, ready for transportation,' Quaint said weakly, rubbing at his bruised jaw, and trying to click his arm back into its socket. 'And us too, if we don't find a way to get out of here pretty damn quick. If those bastards out there didn't finish me off, there's no way I'm going to let a bloody ice box do it!'
In the pitch darkness, Quaint struggled to his feet, with Butter helping to support his weight. He limped over to the wall and traced his hands across it tentatively, searching the cold, glassy wet walls for the door. His fingers brushed against a stack of wooden crates, and his nose told him they contained a consignment of fish.
'If this ice box is used to keep the fish frozen, we don't have long until it starts to chill us too. An hour at the most, I'd guess…but then again, who knows how much air is in here. We might have been out of it for hours; we might only get twenty minutes. After the pasting I just received…I'm not exactly at my peak.' Quaint tousled his curls madly with both hands. 'Think, Cornelius! This is a machine. All machines work on the same principle-power in, function out. There must be an external cooling mechanism inlet somewhere, pumping in the vapours. If we can isolate that…maybe we can shut it down before we freeze to death. Then the hard part is getting out before we asphyxiate, because these industrial ice boxes are designed to be completely airtight -double-reinforced metal doors with rubber seals-which only serves to increase our peril.'
'A machine, boss? To make ice?' questioned Butter. 'How silly!'
'We British can't just step outside the front door and pick up a handful of snow to keep our food fresh, you know,' explained Quaint, flapping his arms about him, trying to keep warm. 'We have to improvise artificially…mechanically.'
'Do you think we can make breakdown of this ice machine?'
'If we don't, my friend, we shall almost certainly freeze to death,' said Quaint, trying to search in the pitch blackness for the gas inlet pipe. 'Unless we get lucky and suffocate first, of course -but either way we're in big trouble.'
'If only we had light,' said Butter, scratching at his thick, black, matted fringe.
'Hang on, we do! My tinder-box is right here in my coat pocket,' Quaint said, fumbling down his body. He slapped his forehead with his palm. 'Blast! The coat that happens to be outside.'
'I have no Plan B, boss.'
'Join the club.'
'Then…I am useless.'
'Far from it, Butter, you're my sounding board-added to that, you prevent me talking to myself like a madman, and that's a very important job!' said Quaint, with a wince as he lifted his arm. The pain from where the dog had sunk its teeth into him earlier was now pulsating in sympathy with the rest of his battered body. 'Come on, Cornelius, you're a bloody conjuror. You've gotten out of far worse scrapes than this. There must be something we can use to try and lever our way out.'
Butter moved over to the heavy metal door and began slamming his weight against it, but it was pointless. The locking mechanism was designed to keep the door completely airtight, and true to its design, it didn't budge so much as an inch. His diminutive frame had all the effect of a rotten tomato against a brick wall. Quaint meanwhile, had gone decidedly quiet, unnoticed under the noise that the Inuit was making. He rubbed furiously at his arms and upper body, in an attempt to get his blood flowing, but it almost seemed an impossible task.
'Must…sit down for a little bit,' said Quaint. Each word was a strain to speak, each breath a struggle to take as the coolant vapour burned his lungs. 'Yes…that's it. I just need…five minutes'…rest.' He curled his body into a tight foetal position on the ice box's freezing cold floor, desperate to keep warm, his teeth rattling in his gums.
Meanwhile, Butter continued his relentless assault upon the door's frame with his hammering fists-oblivious to the slumped figure of an unmoving and unspeaking Cornelius Quaint, drifting a hair's breadth from death's embrace.