Excerpt

1. Jenna Watkins

The door shook, the thuds hammering down like the thunder that echoed outside my window. It was a competition to see which could be the most annoying, and I settled on the door being the winner. Forced out of bed, I threw back the duvet and checked my alarm clock. Yeah, it's a Saturday and only 7.30am. Therefore, by rights, I should still be snuggled under the thick down for another two hours before munching down on cereals and watching shite on daytime TV.

The door thudded again, followed swiftly by the doorbell repeatedly playing the second most annoying tune of my day.

"I'm coming, you grumpy bastard. Hang on," I bellowed, reaching for my dressing gown to cover whatever set of embarrassing pyjamas I currently had on. Glancing down, pink unicorns smirked back, and I wrapped the belt of the gown a little tighter.

I sensed whosoever waited impatiently outside was about to return to the door and used the spyhole. They were dressed in a black tailored suit, belying the grizzled beard and tired eyes that sat atop it. I clicked back the lock, opening the door a crack. The three chains ensured there was not enough room to slide anything more than a slip of paper through. Or ID.

"What the hell do you want? Have you never heard of a phone?"

"Sorry, Miss Watkins." He genuinely did sound sorry, and the fact he used Miss in an Irish accent set the hairs on the back of my head tingling. "But it's urgent. Mr Grendil demands your immediate presence. You need to pack an overnight bag ASAP. The car's waiting."

"Eh? It's a bloody Saturday. Since when …" My mind was addled, still sleep-ridden and the thoughts rushing around just swirled into an amorphous mass of 'what the fuck'?

An ID slid between through the crack; one I gave a cursory glance over. Stern Oil security, no surprise there. He then slid a piece of paper through, one with my signature highlighted on it. The non-disclosure agreement I'd signed way back when I first started, and beneath it the 'do whatever I say, whenever I say' contractual add on for fill-in staff like me. I didn't look at the last paper. It was unsigned, and I figured I'd be checking that out in the car to wherever I was going.

"Give me ten minutes," I said, shutting the door as Ronan, the security guy, started to argue.

I'd like to say I've never packed that quickly in my life, but truth be told, I had piles of clothes stacked all over, either unpressed or ready to wash. Everything gets saved for the weekend. I had sod all else to do other than stare at yet another intermittent digital dating app that sent me Dick-Pic-Dave from accounts on a daily basis. Throwing random crap together, I swept the collection of useless hair control products into the bag and chose two pairs of shoes—one for the bag, the other for my feet. Sniffing my armpits, I checked the time, deciding a flannel was about as much as Irish Ronan was going to let me have.

Clothed and as near to sweet smelling as I could manage, I jerked open the door, Ronan talking excitedly to himself with one finger in his ear as I exited.

"This way," he said. No formality there, and I went to go down the stairway when he took one step upwards and looked back. "Up," he said.

Up. Oh my.

By the time I got to the top, I realised what I'd taken to be thunder was a helicopter perched on my apartment block's roof. Guessing no one had ever rated the 1960s building for anything that heavy, I ran over to jump in the back after the door slid open. Ronan got in next to me and proceeded to adjust my straps and retrieve a set of ear defenders from behind the seat. The blades sped up, the noise a near roar despite them. I held on as we lifted off from the roof, glancing back as we hovered over the alleyway. Something told me my life was about to change. That, and the fact I'd been practically kidnapped from my cosy Saturday.

After the initial build up, the noise reduced, and my supposed ear defenders started talking to me. Irish Ronan poked my arm, and blinking quizzically back at him, he reached out and adjusted the mic for me to speak.

He instantly regretted that as we dropped a few feet.

"Here," he said, collecting a clipboard and placing the unsigned papers in front of me. Mr Grendil wasn't old school. He loved his tech, but insisted on contracts remaining on paper for his personal staff. Either way, Ronan tapped away at the clipboard. "You should have read this before leaving. Now you're a bit stuck, Miss Watkins, because the schedule is squeaky tight and if you say no, we may have to drop you off here."

His smile was quite endearing, and I believe he was joking with me, but with the clatter and excitement, I wasn't going to trust my instincts. Besides, he didn't have the shark-toothed smile of Dick-Pic Dave. I smiled, feigning a laugh, and started to read.

It wasn't a long contract. I tracked to the end, pulling out the waiver at the back, which also had to be signed.

"I—"

"Sign it, Miss Watkins. There's not one person on this burnt-out shit of a planet who wouldn't swap places with you. You just drew the golden ticket."

I closed my mouth, deciding the goldfish look wasn't going to impress, and stared out of the helicopter window. Edmonton passed us by, the temperature hitting 35C today, despite it being October. The mountains had no snow, and the people below sweated away, hoping the dry spell would break without the predicted storms.

Why wouldn't I sign? What was there keeping me here? No kids and no chance of any soon. A shithole of an apartment, and my money pouring into my mother's Aberdeen nursing home. Could I leave her? She hadn't recognised me in the last five years. Is that abandonment? To leave behind someone who raised you, pulled you up by your hair with a screech and a yowl until you realised she was right?

Ronan tapped the contract, eyes on me all the time. He could have a family at home, kids, a loving partner. Everything I thought I wanted. But for how long?

I took the pen from his hand and signed.

"Sorry, Mum. I will love you forever, Mrs Sally Watkins. I promise."