Clara made her first report from the fourth of those intercom panels, some one hundred flights, and two hundred metres, down the shaft. Already, she had descended the height of most of the taller skyscrapers of the world. In normal conditions, it might have taken her about fifteen minutes. On the earthquake-damaged stairs, it had taken her just under an hour, and she was not even a tenth of the way down.
‘Hullo up there,’ came her voice, hollow over the speaker that was set into the main control desk. ‘Can you hear me? Is this thing working?’
‘Roger,’ answered Kennedy, manning the desk while Rita and Richman looked over his shoulder from chairs behind. ‘We hear you. How goes it?’
‘Slow. No insurmountable hurdles yet, but lots of the flights are partially dislodged, so I’ve had to go carefully, climbing every now and then. And it’ll only get harder. Looking down, the lighting fails completely in another twenty flights or so.’
God, thought Rita. Bad enough to descend through that echoing void in the gloom of the emergency lighting. In no light at all, other than that of a torch … it made her feel clammy all over.
‘Well, good luck,’ said Kennedy. ‘And from now on, if you can, call us from every intercom panel that you pass, just to confirm you’re still okay. Otherwise we’ll only get worried up here.’
‘Will do.’
And she was gone.
The three of them waited, saying very little, glancing at the clock on the wall as it slowly ticked away the minutes. Restless, Rita’s gaze roamed repeatedly to the bank of video screens that showed images from the Observatory’s security cameras. There was little to see there for the most part, only empty rooms, or halls down which no one walked, or doorways that never opened.
But one camera showed life. In the Conservatory, Madelaine was sitting in a wicker chair, reading a book. From time to time, when Rita happened to look at the screen, the designer’s head would be raised, staring out into the mist on the Terrace, her pose alert, as if maybe she was hearing something. But always, after a few moments, she relaxed, and returned to her book.
After twenty minutes the intercom crackled. ‘I’m at the next panel,’ came Clara’s voice. And Rita reminded herself that this meant she was twenty-five flights further down. ‘I was right. Lights are out here, and as far as I can see they’re out the rest of the way down. I’m carrying on by flashlight.’
‘Very well,’ said Kennedy.
And they waited again.
▲
It was another hundred metres down that the major-domo met her first real obstacle.
‘Four flights were completely gone,’ she reported from the following intercom. ‘And most of the scaffolding too, just the main uprights left, and the anchor points to the shaft itself. I had to drop straight down by rope. Which is fine, but it might be a problem if any of the rest of you have to come down this way. Up until now there’s been nothing a beginner couldn’t handle, but an eight-metre down-climb on a free rope might be a bit of a challenge.’
‘More to the point, can you get back up?’ asked Kennedy. ‘If need be?’ ‘Oh yes, I’ve left the line there. I have plenty more yet, if I need to do it again.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Kennedy. And Richman was nodding his approval.
So it was only Rita, seemingly, who was horror-stricken at the idea of shimmying down a rope amid the blackness of that awful shaft, with nothing but your own sweat-slippery grip between you and a drop that was still over two kilometres deep …
▲
Forty minutes later came this.
‘You guys up there—these intercom panels, they have numbers on them. Like, this one is ES37. I’m assuming that stands for emergency stairs intercom number thirty-seven, yes?’
Kennedy nodded to the mike. ‘Correct. The numbers are there so that someone on the stairs—maintenance workers or whoever—can tell the Control Room exactly where they are in case of emergency. They count upwards from the bottom, so that means you’re thirty-seven intercoms up.’
Rita did the calculations in her head: if there were forty-seven panels in all, then Clara was ten intercom panels from the top, with a panel every twenty-five flights, or fifty metres … that meant she was five hundred metres down.
‘That’s what I thought,’ came the disembodied voice, doubtful. ‘But in that case there’s been a screw-up during installation, because the panel above me said ES36, I’m sure of it. And it should have read ES38, right? If the numbers count upwards?’
Kennedy and Richman exchanged a glance. ‘Someone put a panel in the wrong place, I guess,’ said the security chief into the mike.
‘If Kushal was here, I’d give him what for about the sloppy work,’ replied Clara. Then, appalled, ‘Oh, shit … I can’t believe I said that.’
To which no one replied.
‘I’m going on,’ said the major-domo.
▲
In the world outside night had fallen. Rita could see it on the security monitors: various windows around the Observatory were captured by the cameras, and they had all gone dark. Three hours now they had been sitting in the Control Room. She felt—not bored exactly, she was too tense for that, but she was impatient with so much waiting. The worst of it was that Clara was not even a third of the way down—there would be hours more of this yet.
‘I’ll go up and get us some food,’ Rita declared. ‘Will sandwiches do for everyone?’
The two men nodded, eyes on the intercom. ‘And some coffee too,’ said Kennedy.
Rita bridled a moment at the order, given as offhandedly as if to a waitress, but then let it go. What did it matter right now anyway?
She climbed up through the service tunnels, very much aware that for the first time she was alone there and relying on her own sense of direction to navigate. She remembered the poor cleaning woman who had been lost in these same passageways. Yes, Rita had found her quite unharmed, but if Rita herself lost her way now, who was likely to find her in this all-but-empty Observatory?
But the fears were groundless; she arrived in the kitchen without incident. Before attending to food or coffee, she passed on through the Dining Hall and on up to the Conservatory, where she found Madelaine dozing lightly in the chair, her book fallen on her lap. Rita touched her shoulder gently.
‘Oh,’ said the designer, starting awake and blinking up at Rita. ‘Hello there; I must have drifted off a moment. Is there any news?’
‘Not yet. Clara is fine, but finding it slow going. There’s still a long way left. I thought I’d make us all sandwiches.’ Rita glanced to the windows. It was dark out there, but light from within leaked out to the Terrace, and against the glass the fog was racing swiftly by in swirls and eddies. A low thrum could be felt underfoot, matched by an occasional moan and whistle from the eaves of the Conservatory—the wind playing. It had strengthened in the last few hours. ‘Nothing to report from up here?’
The designer stared at the fog. ‘No. I thought I heard a sound out there a few times, but it never came to anything. Just phantoms.’
‘Well, are you hungry? Do you want to help me out in the kitchen?’
‘No, I’m fine. I’ll think I’ll just stay here and keep watching and listening.’
‘If there wasn’t a plane or helicopter all day, there won’t be one now, at night.’
Madelaine was unmoved. ‘Even so,’ she said, her eyes still upon the swirls beyond the glass.
Rita lingered a moment, uncertain. Something seemed a little off with the designer. Then she glanced up to the corner where she knew the security camera had to be—though she could not see it, it must be camouflaged as one of several light fittings in the vicinity. She felt oddly sure that back in the Control Room this very instant the two men were watching her, wondering why she was simply standing there as Madelaine sat unmoving in her chair.
‘Okay then,’ she said, and turned away. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you change your mind.’
‘Fine,’ said Madelaine.
▲
‘I’m taking a break here,’ she said. ‘Knees are playing up a bit, all this downhill work.’
‘Check,’ said Kennedy. ‘And no surprise, that’s nearly five hours you’ve been on the go now. Let us know when you move again.’
Silence fell for a time.
Richman muttered unhappily. ‘At this rate, it’ll be dawn before she gets down.’
Kennedy gave him an admonishing look. ‘All the better. That means it’ll be daylight when she reaches Base, whatever is left of it.’
The billionaire gave a distracted nod, and the silence fell once more.
Rita sat back in her chair, her thoughts on the woman a thousand metres below, in the depths of the Mount, on one of the tiny landings, her legs stretched out to relieve the aching muscles of her thighs. Climbing down so many stairs, it would be bad enough for anyone—but it would be even worse, surely, for someone whose feet were …
She said to the men, ‘I’ve never wanted to intrude before, but … Clara’s feet. How badly were they affected when they were frostbitten?’
Richman and Kennedy looked at each other, but didn’t speak for a moment. Then Richman said, ‘She doesn’t like to talk about it. She considers herself fully functional; that’s all that matters.’
But Kennedy gave a snort. ‘She lost the forward half of each foot, she needs prosthetics just to walk. This must be goddamn hell for her.’
The billionaire set his lips tightly. A blush had risen in his cheeks, making his normally handsome face seem suddenly blotched and harassed. ‘She’s still the best climber here, toes or no goddamn toes. I don’t see you shimmying down any ropes.’
Another silence.
The intercom clicked on. ‘Getting a bit warmer down here,’ came the hollow voice.
‘Makes sense,’ answered Kennedy. ‘You’re a kilometre lower down than us.’
‘Right.’
It was banal chitchat. Rita sensed that the major-domo had called in just to hear a human voice in reply. The isolation down there in the dark—she would probably have the torch switched off to save on batteries—must be oppressive.
‘Hey, Clara,’ said Kennedy abruptly. ‘Give that walkie-talkie a try, see if it works from down there. Mine is set on channel four.’
‘Good idea. Give me a moment here,’ came the reply. And Rita imagined the major-domo turning on the torch to fiddle with the radio.
The security chief had hefted his own walkie-talkie, watching it expectantly. After a long few moments the thing blared into life with a burst of static, followed by a garbled undertone of what was evidently Clara talking, although the only word Rita caught was over at the end.
Kennedy pressed the Send button. ‘Say again, Clara, if you hear this. You’re not coming through. Repeat, say again. Over.’
Another burst of static blared, then the air seemed to clear a little, and just audible came the strained words, half shouted, ‘Testing, testing, one, two, three. Over.’
‘Gotcha,’ said Kennedy. ‘But it’s pretty shitty reception, so I’d stick to the intercoms, if you have the choice. Over and out.’
‘Roger, understood,’ came the answer, heavy with static again. ‘Over and out.’
For five minutes there was nothing further. Rita stared at the clock, and at the video screens, and at Madelaine, who was still in the Conservatory, either reading, or staring at the windows, even though there was only blackness and fog out there.
Then, from the intercom, ‘Okay, that’s enough of that. I’m on my way again.’
▲
Midnight approached, and far below, Clara’s pace was slowed by more collapsed sections, forcing her to descend by rope. These down-climbs did not seem to present her any great difficulty, to judge by her tone on the intercom, but she clearly found them frustrating. It was just before twelve that she finally called in from panel ES24, which meant that she was at last halfway down, nine hours into her ordeal.
‘Congratulations,’ said Kennedy.
‘Fuck that,’ was Clara’s tired response, before bidding them adieu and moving on.
More slow time passed. It was good news, but even so, boredom was overcoming the tension within Rita; she was yawning repeatedly. What she really wanted to do was to go to bed in her apartment, but it didn’t seem right to abandon the climber below, even though obviously only needed one person to monitor Clara from the Control Room, not three.
Her gaze flicked every now and then to the security screens. At one point she saw to her surprise that, up in the Conservatory, Madelaine had left her seat and was standing at the glass wall that looked out over the Terrace. The designer was staring intently into the blackness, her pose alert, as if just drawn there by some sound or movement.
Rita watched the scene for perhaps three minutes, but the camera could reveal nothing beyond the glass. In all that time Madelaine did not move, nor did her alert air seem to relax.
Then Clara called in from the next intercom panel, and Rita forgot about Madelaine for a few moments. When she looked back, the designer was in her chair again, reading once more.
▲
One a.m.
‘All right,’ came Clara’s voice over the speaker, ‘this is getting ridiculous. The last panel I passed higher up was ES21, but now this one says ES22. I passed ES22 half an hour ago. This should be ES20. Whoever installed these things needs a swift kick. Not only have they got the panels out of order, they have repeats of some numbers. It could really lead to confusion, if there was an emergency down here.’
‘Noted,’ said Kennedy. ‘Sounds a stupid mistake. So you’re really at ES20. You okay?’
‘Oh, I’m fine. No problems.’
But to Rita, the climber’s annoyance and weariness was palpable.
And she still had a long way to go.
▲
Ten minutes later.
‘Okay, that’s it, I give up. This panel says ES21 again, and I know perfectly well I’m at ES19. I’m going to ignore whatever the numbers say from now on. I have eighteen more intercom panels until the bottom, that’s all I need to know. You got that?’
The three in the control room exchanged glances.
‘Roger that,’ said Kennedy.
▲
Just after two a.m., the intercom buzzed alive. ‘Lights!’ Clara shouted. ‘I can see lights moving below me, way down, maybe at the bottom! Flashlights! I think I can even hear shouting down there!’
The three in the Control Room had been sunk in a stupor. Now they came instantly awake. People! People must be alive at Base after all!
‘Have they seen you yet?’ Kennedy demanded. ‘Have you yelled down to them?’
‘I’ve tried. I’ve shouted all I can. But I don’t know. I haven’t heard an answer. This shaft is weird with noise. But they should hear me. I’m at—I mean, I should be at panel ES16 now, so that only leaves about eight hundred metres to the bottom.’
‘What does the number actually say?’ asked Kennedy, frowning a little.
‘ES24. But that’s bullshit.’
‘Okay then,’ the security chief said. ‘Keep heading down, and keep trying to get their attention. But be careful, don’t rush, don’t forget it’s dangerous. Call us the second they answer.’
‘Check,’ came the voice.
▲
But the report from the next intercom down might have come from a different woman. The excitement was gone, replaced by a tired confusion.
‘I don’t know what happened. I haven’t seen any lights for the last ten minutes now. Haven’t heard anything either. I’ve been shouting, but there’s no answer, not a sound. Just pitch-black all the way below me. It’s like I imagined the whole thing.’
Kennedy was shaking his head. ‘Don’t start second-guessing yourself, do you hear me? I’m sure what you saw was real. May
be … maybe there were people inspecting the bottom of the shaft for a few minutes, and now they’ve gone again. Or there could be other explanations. The point is that there are people alive down there, that’s all that matters.’
‘I suppose so.’ But again, the weariness in her voice belied the words. And Rita thought she could detect something else in Clara’s voice now, beyond frustration and disappointment. It might have been loneliness. And why not? After eleven hours on her own in that lightless shaft, creeping further and further away from all companionship, anyone would be craving some human contact.
Kennedy sat up abruptly. ‘Wait a minute, Clara, I’m a fool. All I have to do is buzz on the intercom from up here and see if anyone at the bottom answers. I can’t believe we didn’t do this straightaway. Stand by while I give it a go. Ignore the ring. I’ll hang up and call a second time when I want you.’
He clicked off, punched the letters ES into the intercom keyboard, then hit the Talk button.
‘That call goes to every intercom in the shaft, all forty-seven of them, right?’ Richman asked. ‘You can’t just call the one at the bottom?’
Kennedy nodded as the tone sounded. ‘From here, you can only dial all the shaft intercoms at once, not one at a time, and from the shaft you can only talk to the Control Room, nowhere else. It was the simplest way to set things up. Remember, the comm system down there is meant only for maintenance or emergencies, not everyday use—it was pointless to give each intercom its own number.’
Rita was leaning forwards eagerly. The intercom tone, a flat electronic buzz, sounded over and over. Pick up, pick up, someone, she willed.
But no one answered.
Dispirited, Kennedy hung up. He paused a moment, then rang the shaft again.
Clara answered. ‘Anything?’
‘I’m sorry, there’s no answer. They must have left the shaft altogether.’
The climber below was a long time replying. Then, very flat, she said, ‘I don’t think there was ever anyone there. I think I was seeing things.’
‘Clara,’ said Kennedy sternly, ‘I told you, don’t second-guess yourself.’
The Rich Man’s House Page 43
