He moves forward, picking his way quickly through the debris on the floor. He reaches the fireplace, climbs over the metal frame in the hearth, and looks up the chimney, his nose and forehead lit from far above.
Even in the gloom, I can see Roger’s face is drained of colour. “Cora — upstairs — a minute ago,” he says under his breath, “the sliding door was stuck. I couldn’t close it. I lost my balance and somebody — some woman — grabbed me and stopped me falling down the steps. Then she shut the door for me. I think — I think it must have been her.”
Mimi’s lips are soft on my neck. “It was Kittie.”
Suddenly we hear a muffled crash from upstairs.
“Blimey! Lankin! He must’ve got through the first door!”
“We’ve got to get out!” My arms are aching. I put Mimi down. She is unsteady on her feet and holds her arms up to me. “Hang on, Mimi. Give us a minute.”
I guide her across the floor to the fireplace.
“Any luck, Pete?” asks Roger as we gaze up the huge chimney to the small circle of light way above our heads. The walls slope inwards to a narrow opening at the top. Even if one of us could climb it, we would never get Mimi up as well.
The banging starts again. Mimi clings to my skirt.
“He’s trying to get through the second door,” cries Roger.
I run my eyes along the curve of the fireplace, to the stack of ancient logs under their grey filmy shroud, to the strong bar of light that shines down from inside the overhanging alcove above them. In the beam, swirling dust sparkles like glitter.
“Where’s this light coming from, then?”
Two chains ending in large hooks hang down inside the recess. Roger catches hold of the thicker one.
“I’ll pull myself up on this and have a look.”
He tugs on the chain hard. There’s a mighty crack. Roger lets go. We stumble back into the room as stones, small pieces of brick, and wood shower around us. The chain falls into the fireplace in a tangled heap, sending up a dense cloud of dust.
Wiping his eyes, coughing, Roger waits a few seconds for it to settle a little, then goes back to the alcove and leans over the log pile.
“It goes right back, a sort of shaft. That’s sunlight shining down. Pete, come and help me move some of this wood.”
Pete and I grab as many logs as we can and toss them behind us onto the floor. The wood crumbles into powdery pieces, irritating our throats, making us choke. Beetles, fat spiders, and wood lice slither in and out of the flaking bark. Our grubby hands are fringed with cobwebs.
We clear a space. I climb over the remains of the stack and bend to get through the short tunnel beyond. The ground is covered with soil. After a few paces, I can stand upright and see white-blue sky through a small jagged hole over my head. Pete is behind me. A quick scramble and he is up on my shoulders while I hold on to his legs.
“I might be able to climb up,” he calls down. “It isn’t high, and some of the bricks are missing, so I can stick my feet in the gaps.”
“Careful, then, mate.”
One hand, then the other goes up into the shaft. One foot, then the other comes off my shoulders.
I look up and get an eyeful of dirt. With his legs wide apart, Pete has wedged himself across the shaft. He is holding on to the wall with one hand, and with the other he is reaching up and pulling at something. Scraps of wood, bits of earth, and dust rain down on my head.
“It’s a sort of trapdoor,” he shouts. “I think it’s where Cora’s foot went through — you know, that hole in the garden. You got a long stick? I might be able to push it up.”
I think quickly. “Get that spit thing!” I yell to Cora.
“What spit thing?”
“That long pole thing in the fireplace. Hurry up!”
I hear her mumbling. “The flippin’ thing’s rusted.”
“Hurry up!”
The prongs on the end of the pole, wrapped in cobwebs, are coming towards me through the tunnel. On the other end of the pole is a short metal handle. I stretch it upwards and Pete takes it from me in his raw, dirty hands.
He hits the bottom of the trapdoor with it, over and over again.
“Me arms are aching!” he calls.
“Don’t stop, mate!”
“I’m getting blimmin’ great blisters!”
At the next blow, there is a crack, and a huge chunk of wood misses my shoulder by a whisker. The shaft floods with hot light.
“You all right?” My open mouth fills with loose soil and leaves. “Blimmin’ hell!” I blink and spit out stones.
Pete hits the trapdoor with a last mighty thump, and a whole plank becomes dislodged and wedges itself against his body and the side of the shaft.
“I’ll have to drop the pole, then I can get hold of this wood.” The pole slides past my face, and the handle hits me hard on the nose. I feel warm blood streaming into my mouth and down my chin.
“Watch out!” cries Pete. “Here comes the door!”
Half-blinded and spitting out blood, I’m not ready for it. The piece of wood falls. On its way to the ground, it slams into my elbow with a jarring blast of pain. I see popping lights, feel sick, stagger.
“Oi! Roger! Flippin’ heck! Stop wobbling about! Don’t drop me!”
I feel Pete’s calves on my shoulders. He scrambles down. “Crikey, what happened to you?” he says, brushing the dirt off his shirt.
I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “Got to get Mimi out. Quick.”
The banging from upstairs has become frenzied. Any minute now and the second door must cave in.
“Cora! Get Mimi over here! We’ve got to go now! Pete, you get out first, then I’ll lift Mimi up, and then you can pull her arms while I push.”
Pete climbs back onto my shoulders, stretches up, and begins to climb, finding hand-and footholds in the crumbling brickwork. The last I see of him are the soles of his shoes wriggling up and out of the hole and into the brilliant sunshine. He calls down that he is in the garden.
Cora pushes Mimi, who is crying, through the tunnel.
“Quick, lift her up on my shoulders!”
“You ready, mate?” I shout to Pete. “Grab Mimi as she comes out!”
“Won’t go. Won’t,” sobs Mimi, twisting her hands into Cora’s skirt.
“You flippin’ will!” Cora grits her teeth and snatches Sid from Mimi’s hand. “You can have him back when you’re a good girl.”
Grizzling, Mimi lets Cora lift her up.
Pete is leaning over the edge of the hole, balanced on the other side of the trapdoor. I can see it moving. I don’t know how long it will bear his weight. He reaches down, but though I stretch up on my toes, I can’t get Mimi near enough.
“I can’t reach!” he shouts.
“You’ll have to go piggyback,” I say to her. She whines.
“If you let me carry you up, Cora will give Sid back.”
Still complaining, Mimi lets Roger lower her down onto his back.
“Hold really tight,” he says to her. “Don’t let go.”
I give her Sid. He dangles from her hands under Roger’s bloody chin. She wraps her legs tightly around his middle. He takes a deep breath and starts to climb up the shaft.
I hear a pushing, scraping noise from the top of the wooden staircase beyond the kitchen.
“Mimi, get your blinking hands off my eyes,” I hear Roger say as he looks for handholds in the shaft. “I can’t see a blimmin’ thing.”
Suddenly his foot slips. I catch it in both hands and gasp as skin slides off my palms. I groan and lose my balance.
At that moment, Roger finds a foothold and hoists himself upwards out of my reach.
Shading my eyes with my hands, I can make out his shape moving up the shaft. I see Mimi being lifted out, Roger manoeuvring himself onto the remains of the trapdoor, which is now leaning inwards from its frame at an awkward angle, one iron ring a black circle against the sky.
My feet slide sideways as the
trapdoor begins to give way. Bending my knees, I quickly swing up my hands to clutch at the long grass on the edge of the hole. My left hand grabs a clump; my right hand seizes another but loses its grip. My arm flails and crashes into the broken, ragged frame. Long rusty nails pierce the flesh of my wrist and rip the skin into deep bloody lines. I cry out. I think I will faint. Swallowing, grunting, I fling up my streaming hand, grasp a sheaf of grass, and pull myself up as the remains of the trapdoor crack, sheer off, and plummet down the shaft towards Cora.
I am showered with earth and splinters of wood. There is a ripping sound, a cracking. Choking, I jump backwards into the tunnel, banging my head on the rim of the arch. Part of the trapdoor falls, crashing into the ground, bringing with it rocks, stones, and soil. The rest, I can tell by the instant darkness, has lodged itself in the shaft, blocking my escape.
Behind me, I hear the sound of feet stumbling blindly, awkwardly, down the wooden stairs from the priest’s hole. Something heavy, metal, is being dragged along behind, scraping on the edges of the treads.
My blood pounds as if it will burst out of my skin.
I rush to the kitchen doorway, slipping on the floor, bumping against the table. The footsteps are just above the last bend, almost at the bottom of the stairs. In front of me is the long passage under the house.
It is all I can do — go down the black tunnel and hide in the dark.
I stretch out my hands in front of me but can’t even see my fingers. I stop, standing frozen on the soft, damp ground, listening. I have no sight, no touch, but I can hear sharp as needles.
The footsteps stop behind me. They crunch on the bones at the bottom of the stairs and then go through the doorway into the kitchen, followed by the sound of some weighty metallic tool.
If I make a dash now, I could get to the steps and rush upstairs, but just as I begin to turn, the footsteps come padding back across the kitchen floor, back to the staircase.
I run down the dark, dark tunnel, my feet slapping on patches of moisture.
The footsteps follow, slipping like mine. The heavy object trails behind.
Faster. Faster still.
My forehead cracks on stone. I see stabs of light, sparks. My head buzzes. I crumple.
I hear panting. The metal thing drops. Arms grip me tight, enfolding.
I smell soap.
“Cora! Cora! Is it you? Oh, thank God. Where’s Mimi?”
It’s Auntie Ida.
“Where’s Mimi? Didn’t you hear me?” she says. “I called and called — the second door was stuck. Where are they? Where’s Mimi?”
My head throbs. My knees are buckling. I feel giddy.
“They’ve gone through this trapdoor, into the garden. They’ve escaped.”
“Through the trapdoor? The log shaft? Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Auntie cries, turning, hurrying back, pulling me with her to the wooden steps, stumbling in the darkness.
I trip over the long handle of the axe she is dragging behind her. It is the huge one that was hanging on hooks by the back door.
My head is spinning. Auntie Ida yanks me, slipping, stumbling, up the wooden steps. We squeeze ourselves back through the gap in the panelling. She pulls me down the hall. With horror, I see Finn, still and silent, slumped at a strange angle across the bottom of the staircase.
Gasping, I lift my face and see Lankin snatch Mimi away from Pete. Pete shrieks, falls to his knees, and covers his face with his hands.
I pick myself up and stumble down the garden after Lankin.
Mimi’s little body dangles limply under his arm. He knows where he is going, darting over the dry mud at the bottom of the empty creek, then leaping over the barbed-wire fence on the other side and into some huge brambles.
For a second, he stops and looks back at me. Grey saliva dribbles down his chin.
The creek is too wide, the mud too soft. I can’t get across.
He drops onto all fours, stretching himself out like some huge insect, and moving so quickly, with Mimi’s floppy head just skimming the ground, that in a moment he is gone.
I bolt back past Pete to the front of the house, pick up my bike from the ground, and hurry on, pushing it over the bridge and hopping onto the saddle in the Chase. The hard lumps of baked mud make it impossible to go fast. I drop the bike and run. My side and throat hurt, but I speed on, round the end of the Chase and down towards the church.
I stop at the lychgate, shoulders heaving, catching my breath, hearing that buzzing noise in my ears like a million flies swarming. The sun burns my cheeks.
We dash through the back door, standing wide open, and into the garden. Auntie won’t let go of my dirty, sweaty hand. My breath is sharp in my throat. She rushes me along the path and around the side of the house.
Pete is alone, cowering next to the outside wall of the huge chimney. Tears pour out of his eyes and down his filthy cheeks in two pale streaks.
“Peter, Peter, where are they?” shouts Auntie Ida, kneeling in front of him, dropping the axe, and shaking him by the arms.
His bottom lip trembles. He wipes his eyes with his fists.
“Come on, you two!” cries Auntie, picking up the axe and starting to run to the front of the house.
“What was that shaft?” I call after her.
“They used to use it for getting stuff down into the kitchen — in the old days,” she shouts breathlessly over her shoulder. “It’s — it’s probably the way Lankin got out after the killings. He must have started to dig it out again.”
“But how did he know that’s where we’d come out?”
“There’s no other way — he knew that. Hurry, Cora!” We turn the corner and race along the weed-covered gravel. “Oh, please don’t let it be too late!”
We thunder over the wooden bridge. The creek is dry. The tide is out.
Pete follows us, pulling up the front of his shirt to wipe his face.
Auntie Ida staggers with the huge axe in her hands. “I never — I never thought he’d come through the roof!” she pants. “Oh — my chest — you carry on — my chest —”
“Let me take that!”
“No — no —” She leans on the axe and takes in great gulping breaths. “All right — I’m all right now — let’s go… .”
We run on. Glancing towards the marshes, towards the church, Auntie doesn’t see Roger’s bike lying in her path until it’s too late.
She goes sprawling. The axe flies out of her hands.
She clutches at her chest. Her face reddens. Pete and I help her to her feet. Her chin is cut and her knees grazed through her ripped stockings.
“I’m all right. I’m all right. We must go on! I’m all right!”
Pete reaches for the axe. “I’ll take this, Mrs. Eastfield. I’ll carry it for you.”
“Give it to me!” she snaps. “I said, give it to me!”
She snatches the axe out of his hands, turns it upside down, and sticks the head under her armpit like a crutch.
“Come on — come on — we must hurry! I’m all right. Hurry!”
We are at the end of the Chase. Auntie Ida is hobbling, her face a strange greyish white.
“Peter,” she says, gritting her teeth, “do you know where Father Mansell lives?”
In a daze, he nods.
“Go and get him! Quickly!”
Pete turns and starts running up the hill.
Auntie Ida and I press on to the church. As we enter the churchyard, her breathing is heavy, her face pinched.
She stops, panting, for a moment, drawing in her strength. I squeeze her arm, and as I do so, my eye is caught by a smudge of pink just above the ground on this side of the lychgate. The small tight rosebud I’d seen hanging over the grave slab just after we came to Auntie Ida’s has bloomed and is dying.
We see Roger standing by the old coffin-shaped tomb with the stone lid half off, where Pete put the wreath we’d made.
Auntie and I draw closer. Roger bends down and picks something up from the ground. It’s
Sid.
“I think he’s taken her in here,” he says, pointing to the tomb.
“I’ll go first,” says Auntie Ida.
She gives me the axe, lifts her injured leg in her hands, and, grunting, hoists it over the side of the stone box. Then, taking some deep breaths and holding on to the sides of the tomb, she lifts the good leg over. With her backside resting on the edge, she braces herself for a minute, then lowers herself in, crying out in pain as she lands.
“Give me the axe!” she calls up, her voice sounding muffled from under the ground.
I lift it with both hands and drop it in after Auntie Ida, then climb up onto the stone lid and swing my legs over the edge. The lid shifts a little as I look down the inner walls of the tomb into the dark earth. The hole is edged with the fine threads of white roots.
“Just jump, Cora,” I hear Auntie say. “It isn’t deep. Bend your knees when you come down. I’m here.”
With my eyes shut tight, I launch myself into the hole. Auntie steadies me as I land. I open my eyes and, for a moment, can’t see in front of me. My mouth tastes of soil.
“Follow me,” whispers Auntie, stooping to crawl through the tunnel, dragging the axe behind her.
Steadying myself, I crouch down like Auntie, reaching out on both sides, feeling hard earth, stones, and ancient bones. My hand runs over something round and smooth. I turn my head. It is a half-buried, dirt-brown skull. Two eye sockets, stopped up with earth, gaze back at me. A fat worm moves like a tongue in and out of the old yellow teeth. The lower jaw is missing.
Roger flops down behind me. “How did he do this tunnel?” he breathes.
“Lankin tried to rescue Aphra Rushes from the church by digging his way in with his bare hands,” whispers Auntie Ida. “Then Piers Hillyard buried him in his rough coffin in the very same place. Lankin had begun to dig his own grave without knowing it and then, later, must have clawed his way out of it.”
The tunnel is narrow and short. In only a few paces, we have reached the foundations of the church.
Some of the stones have been hacked out for an entrance. A makeshift door, a piece of rotting wood, is propped up in front of the hole. Auntie removes it and leans it against the tunnel wall, then peers into the darkness.
“The smell …” she says, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
Long Lankin Page 29
