The Rich Man’s House

by Andrew McGahan

  And think, the voice continued, serenely, would the exit tunnel connect with the absolute bottom of the shaft? Does that make sense? Wouldn’t there need to be a certain amount of space left spare at the bottom to fit things like the elevator workings and the foundations of the gantry, a level below the level where the tunnel enters? So, if you’ve reached the very bottom, then that must mean … Can’t you see the answer?

  And then she could. In an instant she was plunged back into her ruined body, with all its pain and defeat, and the reassuring company of the voice was gone as if it had never been there.

  She reared up off the floor.

  Of course, of course. The exit must lie one or two flights up from the absolute bottom. In her maddened blind descent she must have passed it by. All she had to do was go back up.

  She clambered across the juddering floor, found the ladder unerringly, and crawled upwards. At the first landing she groped about but could feel only vacancy on either side—it wasn’t here.

  She climbed again, up another flight. At its top she found herself ascending into the full force of the wind once more—but the gale was blasting at her from side on. She stared into it sightlessly.

  Yes, this had to be it; she had to be facing the tunnel now. She crept forwards into the wind, and her clutching fingers passed from the steel of the grating to suddenly encounter rough concrete.

  God yes! This must be a platform, like the one at the top of the shaft that extended out from the curve of the walls to meet the stairs.

  She crawled on. The concrete bucked beneath her suddenly as another quake hit, a big one, tossing her to the ground. Where was the damn door? She was still so blind—was she even facing the right way anymore? She groped in panic.

  And then she heard it, a thin screaming that cut through the roar of the wind. It was a voice coming from an intercom panel, the last of them. She must be right by the entrance to the tunnel.

  Hurry. She lurched upright, tottered towards the sound, and found a wall, and yes, a corner, a doorway, an opening from which the wind yelled in its ultimate frenzy. And from the intercom, a matching yell. ‘The Hand of God!’ Richman was crying. ‘The Hand of God!’

  Now, was Rita’s only thought, it’s happening now. The end. Get out or die.

  She fell forwards through the doorway, and even as she did so, there came a mighty thud and clatter behind her, and she knew that more of the scaffolding had come tumbling down from high above, and that she had been an instant from death. Again.

  But now she was in the tunnel. There was still no light, but she crawled forwards into the scream of the wind, across a carpeted floor that leapt and shook like a living thing, quake after quake. I am not reborn yet, she found herself thinking over and over. I’m not reborn yet, but I’m in the birth canal …

  How long was this tunnel? A hundred metres? Two hundred? Either way, it must be traversed on her hands and knees, for the wind was too strong for her to stay on her feet. From time to time she raised her battered head to stare briefly ahead into the blackness, eyes stinging, hoping to see a glint of daylight ahead—if it was still day—but every time the midnight-dark in the tunnel remained unrelenting.

  Around her, the Mount wrenched and heaved, and she was beginning to discern a terrible pattern to it now, a repetition to the quakes.

  Then at last, through slitted eyelids, she saw it, a pinprick star ahead of her in the black. A light, far away. She put her head down and forced herself into the gale for another age, then looked up again, and yes, it was now unmistakably a rectangle of light, a doorway, glowing a dark orange, as if a fire burned beyond—or the last glow of sunset.

  Could it be, could it really still be day outside? The same day? Had no more than ten hours elapsed during her ordeal in the shaft?

  She was weeping again, exhausted, elated, barely able to force headway into the gale: it was howling with ever more frenzy through the tunnel. Quakes pounded the ground beneath her again and again—and finally she realised, appalled, what it was about the pattern that she recognised.

  She had witnessed this before, long ago, at the moment of her mother’s death. After the first great rock had shattered the balcony on which they had been standing, leaving her mother hanging on its edge, Rita had looked up and seen the second great boulder being readied to fall. Some force had tugged and tugged at it, until finally it broke away.

  The quakes that came now, shaking the whole Mount over and over, were exactly the same. They were a determined wrenching, a heaving, to break something loose—as if some great hand had taken hold of the Mount and was trying to haul the peak up by its very roots.

  Out, out, she had to get out! She laboured forwards, and now dust and tiny flecks of stone were raining down from the tunnel roof with every great heave. Despite the roar of the wind she could hear or sense the clatter of more steel collapsing back in the shaft, the great staircase, the tallest ever built, collapsing like so many chopsticks.

  Ahead, daylight taunted her. She could now see that the tunnel opened into a foyer of some kind, a couch was visible, and beyond that a wall of glass in which all the panels were shattered. The sliver of sky beyond was now a bushfire red …

  Stones were raining on her, hurting, and the wrenches had become massive, slamming and slamming and slamming. But the threshold was before her at last; she was crawling through the dust and debris into the foyer, the light dazzling even though it was no more than the last afterglow.

  Just a few metres more.

  But now she was thrown to the floor, even as she reached for freedom, the earth kicking catastrophically, titanically, slam, slam, slam, and behind her the tunnel was collapsing and flying stone splinters were lacerating her back.

  The wrenches came again, a crescendo.

  Slam, SLAM, SLAM.

  Then—

  SLAM.

  With a single, shuddering reverberation, it all stopped, as if the gears of some mighty engine had abruptly seized. The wind caught, then snuffed out like a flame. The ground fell uneasily still, seeming to pant in exhaustion under Rita’s hands. There came a patter of stones and other debris raining in the ruined tunnel behind her, followed by silence.

  Then a new sound arose, from outside, a low crumbling noise that built quickly to a roar, a thunder. It was the sound of something immense falling, tumbling slowly down the side of the Mount. It was the Mount, or some large part of it, collapsing down itself. It rose to an unbearable din, and the earth shook a final time as vast weights crashed to the ground outside, tremendous, godlike thumps. Then it faded away once more to silence and stillness.

  Rita lay unmoving, waiting. But the quiet only stretched out, ringing in her ears. Whatever had happened out there, it was done.

  She rose unsteadily, dust- and blood-streaked, half-naked in torn clothes, her face blackened, one eye swollen all but shut, covered in muck, her injured leg useless—and yet she limped determinedly towards the outer doors. She must see it herself; she must know.

  Upright, she walked out from under the Mount at last, seven days and five hours since she had first entered Walter Richman’s house.

  Outside, dust was everywhere. Through the haze Rita could only guess at the vast heaps of rubble that now lay in ramps against the Mount, both to her left and right. God only knew how much of Base had been buried. But her amazement was reserved for the sky. Above the dust, the heavens were clear. She had been certain through these last hours that some kind of storm was raging over the top of the Mount. But the red sunset sky was cloudless.

  She walked further out from the mountainside, the dust thick on her skin, choking in her throat, but her gaze still turned upwards. Gradually the higher slopes of the Mount came into view, and then finally the summit region. But it was all changed, the familiar shoulder shape of the peak had been scored with mighty rifts and scoops, great chunks had been cleaved away and thrown down, reshaping the summit entirely.

  But that wasn’t the most shocking thing. Above the summit, someth
ing shimmered in the twilight air. At first Rita thought it was the funnel of some colossal tornado writhing over the Mount. But then she realised that it was not really a visible thing at all, it was a vortex made of force as much as of air, a whirlwind that only eyes such as hers might see.

  She followed its length, winding sinuously though the upper airs, an invisible tube of tightly spinning potency, lifting away and withdrawing towards its source, and that source was the Wheel.

  The Wheel! She faced it fully now. Its western face was bathed in the red of the sunset, accentuating its own crimson hues, so that it soared up as an infinitely massive wall of ruby, glorious, shining all the brighter the higher it climbed, until its upper third was almost too dazzling to contemplate, the red turning to gold and then, at the crystal point of the faraway summit, to searing white fire.

  The Hand of God. It was from there that the unseen funnel had descended, and to that freezing height the funnel was now retracting. But even as it went, the whirling tube was still spun tightly about its core, and held there, within the grip of the wind, was the prize for which all this had been fought.

  That prize was already several kilometres above Rita where she stood, already too small for human eyes to discern. But by some other sense Rita beheld it even so, and recognised what it was. High above, and being carried higher by the wind-formed hand, was a miniscule human figure.

  Alive, she was sure of that. Tiny limbs flailed, seemed to clutch at the void in search of a hold, as if falling, even as the figure rose.

  Alive, even as it ascended beyond the regions breathable to man, even as it was drawn higher into the sterile stratosphere. For the shape was cradled and treasured, it seemed to Rita’s special senses, within a pocket of air that the Wheel’s long arm had created for that very purpose, to carry the prize unharmed and aware to the uttermost heights.

  How high exactly, Rita would never know. For at last the distance was too great even for her enhanced sight, and the dot that was Walter Richman vanished against the golden glow of the upper mountain, twenty-five kilometres above her head. Even the funnel itself receded from her view.

  But a last sensation came down to her from the high summit. A voiceless clarion of satisfaction and exultation. The Wheel, victorious.

  Then a cloud seemed to pass over the sinking sun. The golden mountain dimmed to an enormous shadow, and night came on, cold, and Rita was coughing from the dust in her throat.

  She staggered in her pain and weariness, took directionless steps. What now? All around through the dust she could see only the great ramps of rubble, and beyond them the wreckage of Base—earthquake and tsunami and landslide had all wrought their havoc here, and she recognised nothing.

  But no, there, one structure still stood intact, a multi-storey resort-like building, set on a rise and made of solid concrete: the staff block. Its lower floors looked ravaged yes, but the upper levels less so. And on the balconies—god, the relief!—figures were emerging tentatively now, to stare up in wonder, pointing to the Observatory.

  Rita glanced up herself to the summit of the Mount, saw again the great rifts and scoops that had been torn from the peak. She could not see the Cottage from this angle, but she knew all the same that it would bear similar scars. And that one such rift had laid open Richman’s special safe room, tearing away its walls, so that the whirlwind could pluck the billionaire out into the open air, and into the gleeful grip of his nemesis.

  And when, exactly, she wondered, had his sanity returned? When had he realised that he was caught within the wind’s grip, defenceless in midair, stripped of all aid of money or power, and being whirled aloft, higher and higher, to his death?

  And how long exactly, she wondered, with a last look up to the fading summit of the Wheel, would it be before the mountain, savouring its slow revenge, would let that death occur?

  Shuddering, she dropped her gaze once more. The people on the staff-building balconies had noticed her now, and were signalling, calling.

  Night deepened. Painfully, she began the long limp down the slope towards them.

  EPILOGUE 1

  Selected articles, July through December, 2017

  Billionaire out of Contact. Emergency services in Tasmania have confirmed that all communication with Theodolite Isle, controversial home to billionaire climber Walter Richman, has been lost for over twenty-four hours since an earthquake struck the region on Saturday afternoon local time.

  A spokesman said that although the quake was only moderate in strength, 5.1 on the Richter Scale, communications at remote locales can often be easily interrupted. A rescue helicopter is being dispatched early Monday morning, and nearby ships have been put on alert.

  Concerns Grow for Missing Billionaire. Climbing billionaire Walter Richman and his staff remain uncontactable into a fifth day. Repeated rescue flights to the remote location have been forced back by weather that officials have described as being ‘as poor as have ever been experienced’. Ships in the area have been diverted to the island, but the nearest, Australian Antarctic research vessel Aurora Australis, remains some two day’s sailing away yet. Walter Richman has only lived on the island some three months, after the completion of his controversial residence there early in …

  Rescuers Reach Stricken Isle, Cannot Land. Rescue helicopters yesterday reached Theodolite Isle in the face of hostile weather, but were unable to make landing there in high winds and limited visibility, before being forced to turn back. Pilots reported that the little they could discern of conditions on the island suggested that the port facilities there had suffered severe damage. It is now being speculated that though the earthquake of six days ago was not strong, it may have caused a large-scale avalanche or landslide upon the nearby Wheel, resulting in a catastrophic tsunami …

  BREAKING NEWS—Second Quake Strikes Missing Billionaire’s Isle. Australian earthquake monitors are reporting that at around 5 p.m. local time a major quake registering 7.9 struck in the region of Theodolite Isle, some seven days since an earlier quake cut off communications there. Officials meanwhile hope to have rescuers on site within twenty-four hours, with weather in the region improving at last, and with the Australian Antarctic research vessel the Aurora Australis now less than a day’s sail away …

  BREAKING NEWS—Disaster on Billionaire’s Isle. Reports of massive devastation are coming from Australian Antarctic research ship the Aurora Australis, which at dawn this morning finally docked at Theodolite Isle, eight days since communications there were lost, and following a series of earthquakes. It is not known yet if there are casualties, or if …

  BREAKING NEWS—Billionaire Feared Dead. Many Others Missing. It is now feared that Walter Richman, billionaire and renowned mountain climber, may have perished in the series of quakes and a massive tsunami that have struck Theodolite Isle over the last eight days. Fears are also held for many of the over one hundred staff members who work on the island. Numbers of survivors have not yet been confirmed, but it is thought to be low …

  Survivors Talk to Investigators. The forty-seven known survivors of the disaster on Theodolite Isle, now in emergency care in Hobart, have been giving detailed accounts of their ordeal to the authorities. The official death toll currently stands at seventy-three, with another twenty still missing, including billionaire Walter Richman …

  Daughter of Architect Among Survivors. Ms Rita Gausse, the daughter of the renowned Australian architect Richard Gausse, is the sole survivor from those who were stranded in the residence atop Observatory Mount (a house designed by her father) during last month’s disaster there. It has been reported that she and five others, including billionaire Walter Richman, influential construction magnate Kushal Mangalam Ambini, and famed interior designer Madelaine Reynard, were marooned atop the mount by the tsunami that devastated the island below.

  Ms Gausse is reported to have escaped down an emergency stairway. The fate of the other five remains unknown, nor has any sign of their remains so far been located.

 
Inquiry Announced into Billionaire’s Death. A Coronial Inquiry has been launched by the Tasmanian Department of Justice into last month’s disaster on Theodolite Isle, which resulted in the death of at least ninety people, with many still missing, presumed dead, including billionaire Walter Richman. The terms of the inquiry will include …

  Irony of Billionaire Climber’s Death. Friends and family of billionaire Walter Richman have reflected upon his life and death at a memorial ceremony held in New York yesterday to mark his passing.

  The main speaker, business associate and former climbing partner from the 1975 conquest of the Wheel, Daniel Simmonds, said, ‘He loved that mountain. He was more at peace there than I ever saw him anywhere else. He did not fear the Wheel and its formidable reputation as so many of us did. Oh, he respected it, but he knew it lay within his own capabilities to conquer it, and he was right. It did not surprise me in the least that he finally built his house as near to the Wheel as possible. It was only fitting. That he died there might be seen by some as an irony: the man who conquered the Wheel conquered by it in turn. But I’m sure he would not have seen it like that. He would have seen it as truly coming home …’

  Assessors Report on State of Billionaire’s Home. Engineers have finished their assessment of Walter Richman’s stricken residence atop Observatory Mount, and of all the other facilities upon Theodolite Isle, in the wake of the disaster there in June.

  A preliminary report suggests that the Observatory residence, Walter Richman’s grandiose mansion excavated into the top of the Mount, has suffered too much damage to be salvageable, with many sections of the multi-storied complex remaining inaccessible due to collapse or landslide. In fact, a submission will be made to the Coronial Inquest into the disaster that the extensive excavations into the Mount’s summit may well have contributed to the summit’s collapse during the second quake.