He comes very close to panicking now. It’s not that he’s a panicky guy, just that it’s been a while since he had morphine, and when he gets this way, his body reacts badly to things. He’s half-blinded by a powerful flash of blue light that is gone before his eyes have time to blink. There’s a sizzling noise down below. He moves his left hand and feels a tug on his wrist: the flashlight’s lanyard, which he had the presence of mind to wrap around himself. The light scrapes and clanks against the steel grating on which Shaftoe is now spreadeagled, like a saint on the gridiron. There’s another flash of blue light, reticulated by black lines, accompanied by a sizzling noise. Shaftoe smells electricity. He raps the flashlight against the grating a couple of times and it comes on again, flickeringly.