The Rig by Joe Ducie Page A

stains might be.
    â€˜What’s all this then, Tommy?’
    Tommy stroked his beard and grinned. As of two nights ago, he was officially eighteen and one of the Rig’s adult inmates. Drake almost envied the two years he had left on his sentence. ‘You ever heard of rigball, William?’
    â€˜Don’t call me that, and no, no I haven’t.’
    â€˜Well, you’re our crew’s new rigball wingman. Congratulations.’
    Mario punched the air and applauded. Greg and Neil, as always, glared and smirked.
    â€˜No, thanks,’ Drake said and tossed the suit back at Tommy.
    Tommy’s smile faded. ‘We need a sixth since Anderson was sent home, and you’re it, Drake. We all saw you fight your first day here. You can look after yourself, which is what rigball is all –’
    â€˜No means no, mate.’ Drake ran a hand back through his hair. He could do that now – his fuzzy dark brown hair was fast becoming a mop. Last time he’d had hair this long was years ago.
    â€˜Did we mention,’ Mario said casually, ‘that we’re one of only two teams in the league? And that the other is captained by none other than Alan Grey, your best mate?’
    Drake considered, then nodded. ‘Is that so?’
    Tommy pushed the jumpsuit jersey into Drake’s chest. ‘You play, or you’re on crap tubes until you do.’
    â€˜The winter league starts up in a fortnight,’ Greg growled, stroking the scraggly mess on his chin that he thought passed for a beard. ‘We get to practise Wednesdays and Fridays during free time, on the field up on top of the centre platform.’
    Drake recalled seeing the ‘field’ during his excursion to the infirmary. He had seen tiered seating surrounding a concrete slab, with two worn nets at either end. Hard to call something so devoid of plant life a field, but then here they all were on an oil rig being called a prison.
    â€˜What are the rules?’ Drake asked, turning the jumpsuit over in his hands.
    â€˜You ever played lacrosse?’ Mario asked.
    â€˜Years ago during PE at school. The one with the sticks and the ball?’
    â€˜That’s the one. Well, rigball is just like lacrosse, only more …
electrifying
.’ Mario snorted and Tommy slapped him upside his head.
    â€˜The racquets are magnetised, so is the ball. When we’re in control, going to score, we have to pass the ball between three of our racquets before a goal can be made. The other side can intercept, steal possession.’ Tommy waved his hand back and forth and chuckled. ‘Body checking is not only allowed, but encouraged. That’s where you come in, Drake. None of these pansies would dare touch Grey out on the field, but we figure you’ve got nothing to lose.’
    Drake actually laughed. ‘He’s going to kill me anyway, huh? Might as well make myself useful before then.’
    Tommy grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Now you’re being a team player.’
    Drake glanced at the wicked scar tissue that stretched in a thin line across his arm from Grey’s knife attack. A little payback was more than deserved, and if he could do it without any headaches from the guards …
    He slung the jersey over his shoulder. ‘Practice tomorrow night, then?’
    The next night a cool snap to the air had Drake shivering in his jumpsuit, bouncing on his toes, as Tommy and the lads handed out old, battered bicycle helmets from a large wooden trunk, along with shin and elbow pads, and a thin chest plate. Drake and Mario had just hauled the trunk up five tiers of cells and across platforms, with the help of a large boy Drake had never met before named Emir. He was from Turkey, the team’s goalkeeper, and spoke no English.
    The sweat running down Drake’s back threatened to freeze now, as he watched his breath mist on the air, under a cloudless sky scattered with roughly ten billion