by Paul Starkey
Instantly he shivered, an automatic response to being alone in this still, quiet room that not so long ago had been witness to madness, and the incomprehensible. With the funniest feeling that he was being watched, he hurried after Cheung. Whatever was happening downstairs he’d rather face it as part of a group than be left in that room alone.
Chapter thirty two
Sometime earlier, somewhere deeper…
Lucy had been annoyed with herself. In hindsight she should have expected Chalice to flick the lights off while she was descending the stairs. It’s what she would have done if their positions had been reversed.
Actually that wasn’t true. In Chalice’s shoes Lucy would have put a bullet in her back.
She’d been distracted though. Wrong-footed by being found out, by the plan unravelling before she’d had chance to complete it. The ignominy of failing her mentor counterbalanced with annoyance at being caught out by that virtual cripple, John Tyrell. Then, before she could even start planning some way to regain control of the situation, someone had turned up outside. Despite her bravado towards Chalice and the others, the truth was that she was as spooked by this turn of events as they were. She wasn’t supposed to have backup outside of the house, so just who the hell was visiting at this late hour?
She let panic rule her as darkness fell. The stairs had seemed treacherous with the naked light bulb overhead shedding light on them, but somehow darkness expunged this fear for less rational ones. Darkness reminded her too much of her childhood, of trying to stay still and quiet, buried under the duvet. As if a simple covering could protect her from the monster her father could be, as if the feigning of sleep would ever prevent him from slipping naked into bed beside her.
Beyond this there were the more base fears, the race memories from a time when humans lived in caves, from a time when sunset meant all sorts of dangers.
She turned and scrambled back up the stairs. Her feet threatened to slide out from under her but thankfully never did, and even though her hand touched something wet and sticky on the handrail, she didn’t let go, sliding the stickiness up the rail with her, until she reached the door.
“Cunt,” she seethed as she slapped her palm hard against the door with a petulance more befitting a child than a grown woman. She didn’t waste any further effort, instead she located the switch and turned the lights back on.
Now a sense of calculating calm returned. Settling over her like a fine silken scarf. She tried the door handle even though she’d heard the key turn, just to be sure, and despite knowing it would amuse those on the other side.
She couldn’t determine what the sticky substance was that coated her palm, but it came away easily enough as she rubbed her hand against the bare brick walls. Even if it did leave her hand stained red by brick dust.
It was an acceptable trade-off.
She started back downstairs again, forgoing the handrail and instead steadying herself with a hand against the wall. She took her time and took care. The stairway descended through a narrow tunnel, but this opened out as she reached the bottom. She noted with interest that the brickwork only went so far. A few feet from the end of the tunnel it gave way to bare sandstone walls.
The cellar itself was small, although in part this was down to a low ceiling of earth that sat only a few millimetres above her head. She was tall yes, but only insofar as for a woman. Brendan, Ibex or Tyrell would have had to crouch to move around down here.
At the thought of Brendan she allowed herself a tiny smile.
The ceiling was arched. This meant that where the ceiling curved towards the walls it was even lower.
The three sets of wooden shelves, standing one next to the other like dominos waiting to fall, filled what space there was, each of them tall enough that they too were only a whisker away from scraping the ceiling.
Despite there being just about enough headroom for her she stooped slightly. In part to stay clear of the cobwebs that clung to the ceiling like barnacles to the hull of a boat, but it was also to afford her a better view of the floor. There were only two bulbs down here; one covering the stairway, and the other screwed into a socket fixed to the side wall, so there were a lot of shadows, a lot of places where no light fell, and the floor was not only as uneven and earthen as the walls, it was also littered with detritus; a variety of household rubbish, there was a wooden chest, along with several mouldering cardboard boxes and a couple of plastic storage crates.
Kneeling by one box she gingerly reached forward to lift one of the flaps covering the contents. The cardboard was damp, clammy, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was somehow organic. She ignored her revulsion and opened the other flaps as well to see what was inside.
This wasn’t just mere curiosity. She needed to make an inventory of anything that might help her turn the tables on the MI5 officers above.
She still had her wristwatch, still had her shoes, but unlike in fiction these wouldn’t be much help. There were no poisoned blades secreted in the soles of her pumps, no explosives in her watch.
And nothing but a clutch of grimy paint pots in the box. She opened another. More cans of paint that looked like they hadn’t been used in years, dry paint and rust sealing them as surely as a pharaoh’s tomb.
The chest was filled with empty jam jars. Perhaps the lady of the house had once planned to make her own preserves. If so the urge had come and gone a long time ago, the jars were filthy. This left the plastic crates. The first contained chintzy china ornaments wrapped in newspaper. She unwrapped two before deciding there was little point revealing the rest. Of the two she’d uncovered, one was a duck, the other a cat. She tossed them both unceremoniously back into the box. The duck cracked and split in two upon impact, but the cat obviously hadn’t expended its nine porcelain lives. It didn’t seem damaged.
One box left now. There were tools here. Not all of them useful—the hammer had looked promising until she lifted it out and the head dropped off, revealing rotted wood beneath. An old hand drill, several broken hacksaws, rasps and planes, and a couple of screwdrivers completed the archaic toolkit.
The screwdrivers proved most promising. She ignored the flat-headed ones in place of the cross-headed “Phillips” style. They would make better stabbing implements. There were two, though one was so small that she doubted it would be much use and she discarded it. The other one was more substantial, the metal prong a good ten centimetres long, and she put it to one side.
Before closing the box up again she picked up the least rusty looking hack saw, the blade had snapped pretty much in the middle. It took some effort but she wrested the two halves from the frame. In the process she sliced across the flat of her left index finger, wincing but not crying out. She sucked the finger clean, relishing the coppery taste of her own blood, and tried not to think about what she might catch from such a dirty blade. Tetanus was the least of her worries now. She had two fairly sharp little blades at least. They might prove useful at a pinch for slitting a throat, but might be more use to cut bindings should she be tied up once Chalice and co dealt with whoever was outside and released her from her subterranean prison. There were quite a few bits and pieces of rags littering the floor. She took one and tore it in half, carefully wrapping it around each blade. Then she slipped one beneath the insole of her left shoe, the other she tucked into the elastic of her knickers.
She picked up the screwdriver and turned her attention towards the shelving units. Grooves were built into the dark, cherry wood to facilitate the storage of wine. There were a few dozen bottles nestled here and there across the three sets of shelves, but far more empty spaces, and the dust coating the bottles suggested they’d been laid down some time ago. Much like the jam jars; she wondered if this was a hobby that never took off.
She slid one bottle out at random. She didn’t bother to blow the dust away from the label, she didn’t care whether it was white or red, nor what vintage it was. With the screwdriver shifted to her left hand she wrapped the finge
rs of her right around the neck of the bottle and hefted it like a club, smiling with satisfaction at the weight.
It made an excellent weapon, but the question was whether it was one she’d get to employ or not. The chances were that Chalice wouldn’t come down here to get her, she’d order her to come up the stairs—slowly—with her hands up. While she could hide the screwdriver from view this way, plus the fragments of hacksaw blade, it was doubtful she could do the same with the bottle. Reluctantly she started to slide it back on the shelf.
The lights went out before she could complete the task, and surprise made her release the bottle. She hadn’t screamed when the darkness fell, but when the bottle smashed on the floor she did, letting out a high-pitched squeal that reverberated back from the walls to assault her ears.
Berating herself again she gripped the screwdriver tight in her fist and stepped back, wary of stepping on broken glass. One of her feet felt damp, and she hoped this was merely wine, not blood.
Two thumps came from above. At first she thought it was someone banging on the floor above—her ceiling—but then she decided it might have been gunshots. Maybe she had backup after all?
That might explain the lights going out. Cut the power before entering the house to dispose of its inhabitants. Of course if this were an armed unit on her side then she needed to get to the top of the stairs and start banging for help sooner rather than later, otherwise she could be left down here with no certainty of rescue.
Of course getting to the stairs was easier said than done without illumination. The darkness was total. There were no windows down here, and she hadn’t seen a torch or even matches—not that she’d likely be able to find them again if she had. Her eyes would adjust somewhat, but true night vision relied on some ambient light, even if it was only from the moon or stars above. She was going to have to rely on other senses.
Reaching forwards into the blackness, her fingers made contact with the comforting solidity of wood. She’d been facing the stairs, and although the shelves were between her and the staircase, she was at least only behind one of them. All she had to do was inch her way around the shelves, then move forwards, hands outstretched, feet shuffling ahead of her. Eventually she would either find the foot of the stairs with her toes, or else her hands would meet the wall and she would carefully move sideways until she did find the steps.
Another thump echoed overhead.
Three thumps. Three shots: Chalice, Tyrell, and Cheung? Whoever it was up there if they’d taken each of them out with one shot they were good.
No time to hesitate. She began to feel her way around the shelving unit, trying not to give in to the fear that the darkness had reawakened within her. Telling herself that the claustrophobia was an illusion; however much it felt like the cellar was closing around her it wasn’t, the walls were exactly where they’d been before. As she moved she heard sounds in the darkness. Creaks and taps, a pitter-patter that her imagination insisted was rats, or worse.
She bit her lip. The noises had been there before the lights went out, or else she was causing them by her movements; whichever it was, they were not some harbinger of doom. The walls weren’t moving, and there was nobody or nothing else down here. No rats, mice, vampires or monsters of any kind. No windows and only one door, and however badly lit the cellar had been, she’d have seen life if it had been there.
She’d made her way around the shelves now. Escape was probably right in front of her, but still she hesitated to let go of the wooden frame. She was like a swimmer clinging to a buoy in thick fog, reluctant to leave illusionary safety even though dry land was only a short swim away.
If such a thing was possible she thought the blackness around her was darkening. She hadn’t noticed the amount of dust in the atmosphere before, but the air seemed so dry, and though she licked her lips, she seemed to get no benefit from the action.
Focus, Lucy. FOCUS.
She took a deep breath. The mantra that had served her well for so long, seen her through so many dark and degrading moments over the years, played through her head once more. I’ve dealt with worse.
Compared to what she’d endured as a child, a few steps in the dark was nothing. She let go of the shelving unit and took a step forwards.
She didn’t take another.
Even as her front foot connected with the floor she heard it; the sound of a key turning in the lock. She froze, held her breath…then, a moment later, the sound of the door creaking open on rusty hinges. She could see no light shining down from above though. At first this puzzled her, even with the power cut surely any hit team would have torches? Then she realised they were probably wearing night vision goggles.
She nearly called out, nearly shouted, “I’m down here!” She didn’t utter a syllable; she kept her mouth firmly closed, because there was something odd about this. If Chalice and co were dead, then there was no need for night vision goggles, they could switch the power back on, use torches, whatever. That they weren’t choosing to do so suggested that either they didn’t yet have control of the situation, or that she, Lucy, was as much a target as the others.
She shook the thought away. He’d never do that to her. He was proud of her. He loved her.
Still she didn’t say anything.
And then she heard heavy footsteps coming down the steps. Slowly, yet inexorably descending to where waited. Still she could see nothing within the darkness. The footfalls were roughly halfway down the staircase now, she gauged. Still there was no sound beyond that caused by the footfalls themselves.
And suddenly she knew she’d been betrayed. The man coming down here was coming to kill her. Instinctively she lifted her hand, screwdriver held like a knife. It was a hollow gesture. The footsteps were closer now, and clearly whoever it was had reached the cellar floor.
She couldn’t see him, couldn’t see much of anything. It didn’t make sense. He had to be wearing night vision goggles, so he had to be able to see her. If he was here to kill her then she was a ridiculously easy target, and she should already be dead. If he was here to rescue her then why wasn’t he speaking?
The footfalls had paused, but now they started again, moving slowly towards her. Logic failed her, and she resorted to panic. Turning on her heels she stepped back towards the shelving unit, blundering into it with enough force to make the entire structure shift. It wobbled but didn’t fall over, though several bottles slipped to smash on the floor.
Lucy didn’t even think about what she was going to do next, she instinctively made her way back around to the other side of the structure, putting the shelving unit between her and the owner of those footsteps. It was a feeble buffer, but she’d already determined it wouldn’t be the only one. Hands outstretched she moved out into the darkness, planning to get to the next set of shelves, then get around that one to the third and final one.
She hadn’t a clue what she’d do after she was behind the last one, but her only goal at the moment was to stay alive for a few seconds longer. Maybe she could lure her visitor in close enough to use the screwdriver, maybe their goggles were faulty and she could hide?
Her plans didn’t even get this far. She heard the crunch of glass underfoot a heartbeat before she felt the pain. Her pumps weren’t flimsy or cheap, but one large shard of glass was sharp enough to pierce the sole as she bought her full weight down on it, impaling her foot on several inches of glass.
She cried out as pain lanced through her foot. In itself it wasn’t so bad, but the shock unbalanced her, and, arms flailing, she fell forwards.
She instinctively put her hands out to cushion her fall. She screamed as her right palm came down over the broken base of a bottle. The jagged edges pointing upwards like a circle of razorblades.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” By the last word her voice had cracked, from a scream to a whimper in just three words.
Her knees hadn’t hit glass so she levered herself up with her left hand, cautious of more glass, then got to her feet, careful to rest on the
toes of her injured foot lest she push that bit of glass further in. Her left hand gripped her right wrist tight, squeezing tight with the intention of staunching any blood flow it had the downside of intensifying the pulses of agony radiating back from her hand.
She was weeping silent tears now as she performed an ungainly pirouette so that she was facing—at least she thought she was facing —the cellar steps.
Either the footsteps had paused, or else she hadn’t heard them during her fall, but whichever it was she heard them now, still moving towards her.
She’d dropped the screwdriver as she fell, not that it mattered much. Her right hand was useless now, and she didn’t dare remove her left hand from its tourniquet duties lest a jet of her blood gout outwards, taking her life with it.
She hopped backwards as the footsteps got closer. So close that she knew she should have been able to see whoever it was, should be able to hear him breathing at least. She didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything except glass crunching beneath feet that weren’t hers.
As her back gently struck the shelving unit behind her Lucy fell back on the only weapon left in her arsenal.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she whined, trying to sound as helpless, as childlike as she could manage.
A foot came down on more glass, the noise sounded unbearably close now. Another few steps, maybe only one and they’d be…
Another step didn’t follow. Lucy shivered. At first she attributed it to shock, but she realised that it had suddenly grown cold down here when a ragged gust of breath issuing forth from her lips misted before her eyes, a wispy phantom in the dark.
Another tiny cloud of breath appeared within the gloom. Lucy began to tremble uncontrollably. She hadn’t breathed out, and the tiny ghost floated a yard away at least.
