‘I see him!’ said Clayton. ‘Come on, kid, we’re closing in on him!’
Only sixty or seventy metres away, pinned in the dazzling beams of their flashlights, Mr Okun turned and stared at them, and his eyes reflected red, like a partygoer caught by a Polaroid. Then he was gone, and they were running again.
‘Guy’s guilty as hell,’ Clayton gasped. ‘He wouldn’t be running, else.’
Marek said nothing but continued vehemently to wish that he wasn’t here.
They reached the place where Mr Okun had disappeared. Here, there was a narrow pipe half way up the side of the wall, only a metre in diameter, and utterly dark. Water poured out of it in a constant, irritating dribble. Clayton pointed his flashlight down it, and said, ‘This is it... this is the way he went.’
‘In there?’ said Marek. ‘That’s only a drainpipe.’
‘That’s where he went. Look, you can see the marks he made with his shoes.’
‘So what do we do now?’
‘What do you think we do? We go after him.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Marek. ‘I think this is just as far as I go.’
‘What are you? Chicken?’ Clayton challenged him. ‘He’s just a little weedy old mass-murderer. What are you afraid of?’
‘No way, man! Absolutely not!’
‘Listen,’ said Clayton, ‘I’ve done much more frightening things than this. Remind me to tell you about the time I had to climb right inside a gas-fired coke furnace to look for some lunatic who was holding a young girl hostage.’
‘I don’t care. I’m not going down that drainpipe.’
‘You are, kid, and I’m coming with you. We didn’t come all the way down here for nothing, did we? We didn’t get plastered in shit for nothing, did we? And you just remember those little kids in the war, they used to crawl down these pipes for miles, and do you think they were scared?’
‘Yes I do, as a matter of fact.’
Clayton rubbed the back of his neck to ease the tension that was locking up his back muscles. ‘So you really want to throw in the towel? When you might have found the Executioner? You’re throwing away a lot of glory, kid.’
Marek peered down the drain again. He wouldn’t have dreamed of crawling down a narrow pipe like this, even in daylight. But this was pitch dark, and coated in slime, and a thin rivulet of dark brown sewage trickled down the middle of it. And God alone knew what was hiding in there, waiting for the first foolish intruder to come blundering within its reach.
He looked back at Clayton, and Clayton shrugged. ‘It’s up to you, kid. I’m going, even if you’re not.’
‘All right,’ said Marek, even though the sensible side of his brain was furiously thinking Shit! shit! why did you say that? And then he made things even worse by saying. ‘Why don’t I go first? I’m a little faster than you.’ At the same time, thinking You’re crazy, you’re totally crazy, you must be out of your mind.
There were two rungs on either side of the pipe and he used them to heave himself up. There was barely room enough for him to be able to turn his head around.
‘What happens if I meet up with him?’ he asked, in a muffled voice.
‘Just hold on to his feet. He won’t be able to do much, in this confined space.’
‘Just hold on to his feet,’ Marek muttered, as he started to elbow his way along the sewer. ‘Easy!’
As soon as Marek had climbed completely into the pipe, Clayton hauled himself up and came after him. ‘My guess is, this is just an interconnecting pipe he uses to make his way from one main drain to another,’ said Clayton. His voice boomed like a man with his head in an empty water tank.
‘So long as it goes somewhere,’ Marek called back. He hadn’t crawled more than fifty metres, and he was already beginning to feel desperately closed-in and panicky, especially since the only way back was obstructed by Clayton, bulky and coughing and very much slower than he was.
His flashlight illuminated a pipe that ran dead straight for as far as he could see; and beyond the range of the beam there was nothing but darkness. To begin with, he was disgusted by the slime on the sides of the pipe, but after a while, when he had worked out a regular rhythm with his knees and his elbows, he began to be grateful for it, because it enabled him to crawl and slide at the same time, and made his progress much faster. Who needs to go rollerblading, he thought, when you can skate on your belly on human grease?
‘See anything?’ asked Clayton.
‘Darkness and more darkness, that’s all.’
‘Stop for a while. Let’s listen.’
They stopped crawling for a moment and strained their ears. They could hear the faint whistling of air through a ventilator shaft, and a distant, deep grinding noise, but that was all. ‘Traffic,’ said Clayton. ‘Let’s go on a bit further.’
Marek was sweating now. The effort of crawling along the pipe was beginning to exhaust him. His knees and his elbows were sore, and his sewage-wet jeans were chafing his thighs. But if the only way out was to go forward, he didn’t have any choice but to continue. He cursed himself for having agreed to do this; and he cursed himself even more for having volunteered to go first. ‘You know what you are, you’re a menda, a pain in the ass.’
‘Say what?’ called Clayton.
‘Never mind,’ said Marek. ‘Talking to myself.’
At that instant, he heard a frantic clicking, clattering sound, coming straight towards him. His flashlight beam caught a huge black shape, almost as big as a dog, with slicked-back fur. He screamed, ‘Gaaaaaah!’ and whipped up both hands to cover his face. The largest rat that he had ever seen in his life jumped onto the back of his head, its claws scrabbling in his hair. It was so heavy that it knocked his forehead down into the sewage. Then it ran along his back, and all the way down his legs. He lay flat on his stomach, quaking with shock. He didn’t even hear Clayton saying, ‘Shit!’ and hitting the rat with his flashlight. He just stayed where he was, his eyes squeezed shut, his teeth gritted, his whole body convulsing as if he had stuck his fingers in an electric socket.
‘You okay, kid?’ asked Clayton.
Marek nodded, forgetting that Clayton couldn’t see him. And even then he thought, Why did I do that? I’m not okay. I’m up to my armpits in shit and I’m shitting myself. I want to go home. He thought of his mother taking apple mazurka cake out of the oven. He thought of Olga and his little brother, and he could have cried.
‘Didn’t hurt you, did it?’ Clayton wanted to know.
‘No, no. I’m terrific. I’ve never seen a rat as big as that before, that’s all.’
‘They feed good down here. It’s a non-stop banquet as far as rats are concerned.’
They continued to crawl along the pipe, but this time Marek kept his flashlight pointing steadily at the darkness in front of him. He didn’t intend to be surprised by any more rats. If he was growing tired, Clayton was almost at the end of his strength. Marek could hear him gasping and wheezing as he dragged himself forward, and every now and then he had to stop for a rest.
‘Are you sure this goes somewhere?’ asked Marek. ‘I don’t fancy crawling all the way to the river.’
‘If your Mr Okun managed to come this way, then so can we.’
‘What if he didn’t come this way? What if he tricked us? What if this is a dead end?’
‘If this is a dead end, then we’ll just have to crawl out backwards, won’t we?’
Almost twenty minutes went past as they grunted and scuffled their way through the interminable darkness. Marek’s flashlight beam began to weaken, and he had to shake it to keep it bright. They were both aching and numb, and the air was so foul that they couldn’t stop themselves from coughing up sour-tasting saliva. They stopped repeatedly, and listened for any sound that might indicate that Mr Okun was up ahead of them, but there was nothing. Marek was feeling so claustrophobic that he had to keep closing his eyes and pretending that he wasn’t here at all. What was worse, he was sure that the pipe was becoming even
narrower, so that he had to keep his head down all the time, and his shoulders rubbed against the sides.
He thought, If this gets any tighter, I’m going to have to tell Clayton that I can’t go on. Because I can’t go on.
He struggled on for five minutes more, and then another five, but then he stopped.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Clayton. ‘You hear something?’
‘I’ve had enough. I want to go back.’
‘Come on, kid, you’ll get a second wind in a minute. You’re tired, that’s all.’
‘And you’re not?’
‘Just give it a little further. We’re bound to hit a main drain soon.’
‘That’s what you said an hour ago. I can’t stand it. I just can’t stand it. I’m having one long panic attack.’
‘Wait,’ said Clayton. ‘Switch off your flashlight.’
Marek hesitated, but then he switched it off. Clayton switched his off, too, so that they were plunged into darkness. All Marek could see were greenish after-images floating in front of his eyes like bacteria under a microscope.
‘What is it?’ he asked. His heart was beating so hard against his ribs that he felt as if he were being punched.
‘There... I thought I saw light,’ said Clayton, and pointed up ahead. Marek looked, too, and saw the faintest glimmer.
‘Looks like daylight.’
‘I don’t care what it is, so long as it’s a way out of this goddamned pipe. Come on, let’s haul ass.’
They switched on their flashlights again, and kept on crawling, their knees and elbows sliding on the thick greasy residue that coated the pipe in thicker and thicker layers. In some places, it was like slimy lard, more than five centimetres in depth. Up ahead of them, however, the light grew gradually more distinct, until they could actually see the curve of the pipe that it was illuminating, like a crescent moon reflected in a pond.
‘It’s a ventilation shaft,’ said Marek. ‘I can feel it... I can feel it already.’
He arched his neck back as much as he could, and he could feel a soft sour current of air playing against his face – tainted not just with sewage, but with diesel fumes, and the smell of the world above, of the streets. For the first time in over an hour he took a deep breath, and then another. As he kept on crawling, he heard buses, and car horns, and the distant nagging of an ambulance siren.
‘It’s okay, we’re going to make it,’ he said, twisting his head around so that Clayton could see him.
‘Maybe we are. But what happened to your friend Mr Okun?’
‘Who gives a shit? Let’s just get out of here.’
But Clayton was adamant. ‘Listen, kid, I didn’t crawl all the way down this toilet pipe for nothing. I wanted that bastard before, but I really want him now. I’m going to make him eat this grease for breakfast.’
Marek reached the ventilation shaft, and eased himself, bruised and aching, to his feet. It was nothing more than a circular, brick-lined shaft which led up ten metres to an iron grating. Marek saw tyres passing over it, and heard the rumble of heavy trucks. He couldn’t guess exactly where they were, although it must be underneath a main route, probably Pulawska or Niepodleglosci.
What amazed him was that night had fallen, and that the light which filtered through the grating wasn’t daylight, but the light from streetlamps. He checked his watch, shook it, and realized that it must have stopped. He and Clayton must have been crawling for hours.
Clayton’s filth-caked hands appeared in the sewer pipe, and then his face. Marek was shocked by how haggard he looked. His eyes were rimmed with red, and his features seemed to have collapsed, like an old brown paper bag, smudged and worn and criss-crossed with creases.
‘I guess you’re going to have to help me out of here,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I’m not as sprightly as I thought I was.’
Marek took hold of his hand, and began to heave him out of the pipe. As he did so, however, he became aware of a thick shuffling sound, somewhere in the distance, almost a chuffing, like an approaching locomotive. He stayed still for a moment, and said, ‘Listen – what do you think that is?’
Clayton listened. ‘How should I know? Maybe a train.’
‘A train? It sounds like it’s coming down the pipe.’
Clayton listened again. ‘At that speed? Nothing can come down this godawful pipe at that speed.’
But the shuffling was coming closer and closer; and faster and faster; and Marek was suddenly aware that the airflow had changed direction. It wasn’t blowing in from the grating, but out of the sewer pipe – and it began to rush so forcefully that it ruffled what was left of Clayton’s hair.
Clayton listened a few moments longer, and then he said, ‘Holy Jesus, kid, something’s coming up behind me.’
‘What?’
‘He’s tricked us, the bastard! He’s got us trapped! He never came this way! But he’s sent the Executioner after us!’
Marek was so shocked and panicky that he stumbled back against the brick ventilator shaft, bruising his shoulder. But Clayton yelled at him, ‘Get me out of here! For Christ’s sake get me out of here!’ and Marek seized both of his black, greasy hands, and tried to pull.
‘It’s okay, I’m okay,’ said Clayton. ‘It’s just that I –’
The shuffling, chuffing sound was so close now that it seemed to fill the whole sewer. The walls shook, and iron grids started to rattle. Marek could feel the Executioner through the ground, through the soles of his feet, and it was like standing in the middle of a highway waiting for a truck to hit him (which he had once, in a moment of teenage despair, and every vehicle had driven around him, frustrating him at first, but then making him laugh, as if he were a seriously failed matador, at whom the bulls refused to charge).
But there was nothing laughable about the way that the sewer was literally quaking as something came close. ‘Get me out of here, for Christ’s sake!’ Clayton begged. ‘He’s almost here... I can feel him! Jesus, can’t you hear that knife?’
And sure enough, Marek could hear the off-key ringing of a long, sharp blade. If the Executioner was approaching them like an unstoppable locomotive, then this was its bell, its clanging, repetitive bell, warning everybody who stood in its way that the Executioner was coming through the night, and that they had better hide, or run, or stay well out of its tracks, because it was coming through, and nothing in the world could stop it.
Marek tugged at Clayton’s hands again, but their fingers were so greasy that they slipped. Clayton seemed to be wedged, maybe around the waist, and it was going to take a whole lot of pulling and wriggling to work him free.
‘Listen, Clayton, just try to relax,’ he said in a high, off-pitch voice. ‘All you have to do is to let the air out of your lungs. You got me? Let it all out, exhale; and then I’ll pull you!’
Clayton made a face like a drowning swimmer. But even as he tried to breathe out, the ringing stopped, and Marek heard, a sharp chopping sound. Then another. Then another.
Clayton screamed, ‘No!’ and twisted around and around in the pipe. He was staring at Marek in agony and utter horror, but there was nothing that Marek could do, except to grab hold of his hands and try to pull him out.
‘No!’ screeched Clayton. ‘No!’ He was thrashing around so violently that Marek couldn’t get a grip, although he tried to seize the collar of his jacket.
‘No! God! No!’ Clayton repeated, his eyes wild with shock. ‘It’s cutting my feet off! It’s cutting my fucking feet off!’
Marek bunched the fingers of his left hand into Clayton’s collar, and grasped his wrist with his right, and heaved. There was a moment when he thought he might have succeeded in dragging Clayton free. They were face to face: eye to eye. Clayton was staring in pain and desperation; Marek was straining as hard as he could. God forgive me for coming down this pipe. God give me strength.
He pulled at Clayton until he heard the muscles in his back cracking. But Clayton wasn’t just wedged in the pipe. Something was ho
lding him fast, and something wasn’t going to let him go. There was more chopping, and Clayton shouted, and jerked from side to side, and said, ‘Please, Marek, please Marek, please don’t let it do this Marek! It hurts, Marek! For Christ’s sake, Marek it’s cutting my legs off! Don’t let it – aaah – don’t let it – AAAAAH – Marek – don’t let it –’
The chopping noise quickened, and Clayton looked at Marek in absolute horror. He was almost beyond pain now. All he could do was stare, open-mouthed, as his legs were chopped up, and then his buttocks; and then he screamed in a way that Marek had never had a man scream before.
‘Marek – it’s – aaaaahhhh!’
Clayton’s face dropped forward, and at that moment a huge surge of blood and sewage poured into the bottom of the ventilation shaft, and lazily swirled around Marek’s feet. Marek let go of Clayton’s collar, and stepped back, mewling in fright. Clayton seemed to shudder for a moment. One hand looked as though it might be appealing for help. But then he was dragged away into the darkness of the sewer pipe, and Marek heard the noises of such an appalling act of butchery that he couldn’t do anything at all, but stand with his back to the brickwork and his eyes wide open, listening to the brisk, decisive bite of steel against bone.
Suddenly, there was silence. Marek waited, trying not to breathe too loudly, trying not to cry. More blood swelled from out of the pipe, streaked with sewage. It carried fragments of bone with it, and ribbons of pale beige intestine, and a huge dark clot of bloody-looking offal that could have been part of Clayton’s liver.
Marek listened and listened, but he couldn’t hear anything at all. No shuffling, no ringing, no breathing. He reached out with his left hand and clasped the nearest of the iron rungs that led up the ventilation shaft. He made no noise at all. He waited, and then he reached out with his right hand. With any luck, the thing would be satisfied with Clayton, and wouldn’t even realize that he was here.
The Chosen Child Page 29
