The Second Sleep

by Robert Harris

  Sarah said, ‘Should we not inform Dr Shadwell and Mr Quycke of what has happened?’

  ‘They must know it, surely? The men would have had to carry the body directly past their wagon.’

  ‘Do you think they have gone as well?’

  ‘Perhaps. There certainly seems little point in their remaining. If I were Shadwell, I would make a run for it, and to hell with Hancock and his thousand pounds.’

  They stared into the fire. Rain hissed in the flames.

  ‘We could return to Durston Court,’ she suggested, ‘and pass the night there.’

  ‘If that is what you wish.’

  But neither could find the energy to move, and in the end the issue was settled by their exhaustion. First Sarah kept nodding off, then he did. Finally they banked the fire in the hope of keeping it alight till morning and retreated to the tent, where they lay on the blanket, wrapped in one another’s arms, and listened to the pattering of the rain on the canvas.

  At some point in the night Fairfax heard a noise and woke. Sarah’s arm was flung across his chest. The candle had gone out. The darkness in the tent was disturbed by a faint blue flickering. He lifted her arm. She stirred in her sleep, muttered something, pulled her arm away and rolled on to her side. He rose quietly so as not to disturb her. The stiffness in his muscles from his day’s exertions and then from lying on the hard damp ground made each movement painful. He lifted the tent flap and peered outside. The sky above the trees flashed blue, lighting up the tower and the abandoned camp brightly enough to cast sharp shadows. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. Beyond the glowing embers of the fire he thought he heard a movement, and for an instant, when the lightning came again, he glimpsed the outline of a figure standing near the empty tents, seemingly watching him. By the time of the next flash, it had gone.

  He moved warily towards the red glow of the fire. On the trestle table, amid the abandoned debris of the meal, he found the knife Sarah had used to carve the pig. He heard a rustle, the snap of a twig. He flourished the knife into the darkness and called out, ‘Who’s that?’ There was no response. He glanced back at the tent where Sarah lay asleep. To retreat, or to advance and leave her unprotected? He weighed the choices and decided he dared not leave her. He waited for another lightning flash to show him the way back, and just as he reached the tent, the accompanying peal of thunder followed, louder and closer than before.

  He picked up his bag and carried it over to the blanket, laid it down and sat with his back propped against it, the knife in his lap, determined to stay alert. He was still in that position when Sarah woke him the next morning.

  ‘Christopher?’ She was gently shaking his shoulder.

  ‘What?’ His eyes opened. For an instant he thought she was a part of his nightmare, which dissolved with the daylight.

  ‘You were muttering in your sleep. And the knife?’

  He glanced down at it. ‘I heard someone moving in the camp last night.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I did not see.’

  ‘John Hancock. It must have been.’ For the first time since he had known her, she looked afraid. ‘It’s light outside.’ She held out her hand. ‘May we please now get away from this accursed place?’

  He needed no persuading. He let her help him to his feet and hoisted his bag over his shoulder. Knife in hand, he opened the tent flap and gestured to her to wait while he checked outside. The site was very still. There was no dawn chorus. He beckoned to her to follow, and together they stepped out into the daylight.

  The rain had stopped but the air felt moist, the clouds so low that the tops of the trees above the Devil’s Chair were lost in a smoky grey mist. Part of the hillside had fallen away in the night. He wondered if that was what had woken him. A brown mudslide, narrow at the top and broad at the base, lay strewn across the green forest like a skirt spread out to dry.

  It was possible Hancock might be asleep in one of the tents. He put his finger to his lips. They trod stealthily, careful where they put their feet. It was only as they reached the bottom of the slope leading through the wood to the base camp that the silence was disturbed by the familiar sound of a distant hacking cough. They looked up. Shadwell was painfully descending the hillside, leaning on a stick. He stopped to double over and spit upon the ground. When he straightened, he saw them and waved his stick.

  ‘Wait there!’ he called. He made as much haste as he could, grimacing with the effort, his feet skidding on the muddy slope. Before he had even reached them, Fairfax could sense his distress. He called out to them again. ‘Is Oliver with you?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Fairfax. ‘We believed him to be with you.’

  ‘He was beside me last night right enough.’ He joined them – unshaven, agitated. ‘But this morning when I woke he was nowhere to be found. I thought he must be here.’ He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted. ‘Olly!’ He stared distractedly around the abandoned workings. ‘What a disaster it has all become!’ He called again. ‘Olly!’ The name echoed forlornly around the wall of hills.

  Fairfax said, ‘I think perhaps I saw him last night.’ Now he thought of it, he was sure. The figure had been too tall to be Hancock. Tired as he was, he grasped what it meant at once. ‘I fear he may be gone.’

  ‘Gone? Without telling me? Why would he do such a thing?’ Shadwell made circles in the air with his stick, as if he might conjure his secretary out of nothing. ‘He must be here somewhere. Where do you think you saw him?’

  ‘Over there, near the campfire.’

  Sarah said, ‘Perhaps he went to the tent where you worked yesterday?’

  Shadwell turned to her gratefully. ‘Yes. Exactly. That will be it.’

  They walked with him towards the tower. The workings looked uncommonly ugly in the morning light. They defiled the strange beauty of the spot. Shadwell paused to examine the collapsed tunnel. ‘This is where the young fellow was killed?’

  Fairfax nodded.

  ‘That poor boy – to drown in the earth! I warned Captain Hancock of the danger. He would not listen. To tunnel in mud, in a rainstorm, in the dark, using men without experience – what sort of folly is that?’

  He wrenched his gaze away and they resumed their journey. Inside the tent there was no sign of Quycke, just the finds from yesterday’s dig, carefully sorted by type – plastic, glass, metal. The big window with its tracery of wire was leaning against the table. But the table itself was bare.

  Shadwell went over to it. ‘My records are gone. And my books.’ He ran his hand over the surface, disbelieving. Behind his mauve-tinted spectacles his eyes were blinking rapidly. ‘Someone has taken them. Surely it cannot be Olly? He would have asked me.’

  Fairfax said gently, ‘I fear Mr Quycke has not been entirely straight with you, Dr Shadwell. Quite what double part he has been playing I cannot tell for certain, but for sure there is more to it than we know. As your secretary, I assume he was privy to all your correspondence?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The letter from Father Lacy, describing his discoveries – the appeal for assistance that brought you to Axford – can you recall what day it arrived?’

  Shadwell raised his hands hopelessly. ‘No. I would need to consult my papers. And they are gone.’

  ‘You told me you left Wilton immediately you read it?’

  ‘That very afternoon. What of it?’

  ‘Lady Durston says Father Lacy saw the glassware on the twenty-fourth, a Sunday. You say he wrote to you at once. Yet there was an interval of eight or nine days between the dispatch of his letter and your arrival at the Swan. The gap has always troubled me. Who would have opened his letter first, you or Mr Quycke?’

  Shadwell looked at him bleakly. His mouth flapped open. ‘Olly. He dealt with all my letters.’

  ‘Then is it possible he could have made a copy and sent it to Bishop Pole before he even showed it to you?’

  ‘I suppose … perhaps … He has been out of sorts just lately.’ He shook h
is head as if to clear it. ‘No, no. It is not possible. Not Olly …’

  ‘Then where is he, Dr Shadwell? And why has he taken your work? Does the evidence not suggest he has all along been employed as the bishop’s spy?’

  Shadwell’s jaw worked soundlessly in dismay. He clutched at the table as if he might topple over. Sarah took his arm and guided him to the folding chair. He sat down heavily and stared straight ahead. Suddenly he made an awful retching sound, leaned forward and vomited blood.

  Sarah put her arm around him. ‘Fetch blankets,’ she said to Fairfax, ‘and bring some water. Quickly!’

  As he went outside, he glanced towards the tower.

  A figure, immense and bulky, was moving between the mounds of earth. It was Hancock, staggering slightly from the weight of the two barrels he was carrying, one under either arm.

  Afterwards, Fairfax was to realise that of course Hancock had not returned home tamely to the mill, that he would never give in, that he would see the thing through to the end, even if it meant destroying whatever it was he sought and himself in the process. He had been to the quarry and had bought or stolen – Fairfax was never sure which – the black powder they used for blasting, and now he was placing the barrels in the tunnel Fairfax had helped dig close to the base of the tower.

  Fairfax stood behind him in the trench and addressed his wide back as he laid the charge. ‘Captain Hancock, this is madness.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Surely you must see why? The effect of the explosion – the damage that may be caused …’

  ‘We cannot dig the monster out – the men will never return, no matter what I pay ’em. Therefore ’tis an explosion or nothing.’ Hancock withdrew from the tunnel and turned to face him. There was a touch of insanity about him, in the wildness of his eyes, and in the curious grin he wore. ‘Well, Parson, will ye help me?’

  ‘Help you? How?’

  ‘Carry the other barrels.’

  ‘There are more?’

  ‘Certainly. I have another ten in the wagon.’ He laughed at Fairfax’s expression and clapped his hand on his shoulder. ‘’Twill take more than two to do a job this big! Even twelve may not suffice.’ He looked around the trench and nodded. ‘But in a narrow space, with ten good feet of earth on top, the greater part of the force should be directed downwards. The chance is worth the effort.’

  ‘You speak of “chance”? You know nothing of what you are doing!’

  ‘Wrong, sir. In the late war against the French, we cracked open one of their strongest forts using this same method exactly. Well? Surely we have travelled too far to abandon our journey when we can see the end?’

  ‘Our situation has changed entirely. Mr Quycke has deserted.’

  ‘Quycke! Good. We have no need of Quycke.’

  ‘He has not left out of cowardice. Rather, I fear he informs for Bishop Pole. It’s my suspicion we have walked into a trap.’

  That news quietened even Hancock. But not for long. ‘Then all the more reason to make haste while we can. Will ye help or not?’ When Fairfax said nothing, he shrugged. ‘So be it. I’ll do the work alone.’

  He lurched off down the trench like a drunkard, stepping around the tools that had been discarded the previous night, and made his way up the ramp and out of sight.

  Fairfax squatted on his haunches and peered into the tunnel. He could just make out the squat shape of the barrels at the far end. Two looked menacing enough. Surely twelve would bring the tower down? Here was Hancock’s ambition embodied: that force without which no city is built, no city destroyed. He withdrew and hurried back to Sarah and Shadwell.

  She had fetched the blankets from their tent, along with the bowl, and had laid out the old man on the ground. He was lying on his side. Occasionally he gave a feeble cough. The bowl was half full of blood.

  She said reproachfully, ‘I thought you had left us too.’

  ‘Hancock is back, with blasting powder from the quarry. He proposes to break in to the chamber by means of an explosion.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as he has carried all the necessary barrels from his wagon.’

  ‘Does he know of Quycke’s disappearance?’

  ‘I told him. He is unconcerned.’

  ‘But he must not blast! It will be heard for miles! This land is mine – I shall forbid it.’

  ‘Forbid it all you like. He will not listen.’

  ‘Then we must abandon the hillside before he carries out his plan.’

  ‘And Mr Shadwell? We cannot leave him, or carry him between us. We will need Hancock’s strength to help.’

  Shadwell had raised his head and was listening to them. ‘What is that?’ he asked in a weak voice. ‘He is blasting into the chamber, do you say?’

  Fairfax said, ‘Yes, sir, I am afraid he is quite mad.’

  ‘No, no. It is the only way.’

  Sarah said, ‘Surely you cannot approve?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘But the risk!’

  ‘I have waited many years for this moment, Lady Durston. Now that I have almost no life left – and, it seems, no friend left in the world, either – I do not mind a risk or two.’

  And so it was that they stayed.

  Sarah persuaded Shadwell to eat a little food. His strength seemed to revive somewhat, although Fairfax suspected it was the prospect of the explosion that gave him the will to recover rather than the stale bread and cold pork she cut up and placed in his mouth as if he were a baby bird. Occasionally Fairfax stepped out of the tent to watch Hancock as he struggled down the hill with another pair of barrels tucked beneath his arms. He made no move to help. He would have no part of it.

  After an hour or two, when Hancock had transferred all the barrels and had set them in the tunnel, he could be seen unwinding a spool of fuse wire all the way along the trench. Once that was done, he came over to their tent.

  ‘Ye need to move from here to a safer distance.’

  Sarah said, ‘You have no right to do this on my land, John. I do not give my permission.’

  Hancock could not bring himself even to look at her. He addressed them generally. ‘I am giving ye all fair warning. Remain here and ye may be hurt. Stay or go – ’tis all the same to me.’

  Fairfax said, ‘Will you at least help me to move Dr Shadwell to a safer spot?’

  ‘If that is what ye want.’

  They lifted the tabletop from the trestles and placed Shadwell on that, covered in a blanket, and carried him out of the tent. Sarah walked beside the makeshift stretcher, holding Shadwell’s hand. ‘D’ye see the sort of man I am, Parson?’ panted Hancock. ‘I’ll help ye, even if ye’ll not help me!’ They went up the slope beyond the trenches, past the uncovered mass grave, to a spot some two hundred yards distant from the tower. Once Shadwell had been placed upon the ground, Hancock set off down the hill to the western trench.

  Fairfax took out Lacy’s spyglass, extended it and put it to his eye. Hancock was crouching at the top of the ramp, fiddling with something. He seemed small framed against the great panorama of the Wessex landscape. The land fell away into trees and pasture, and then, beyond the wooded valley, like a great flat sea, the distant empty moor extended to the horizon, pricked only by the church tower of Axford. It was just possible to make out travellers on the road, a half-dozen tiny figures on horseback. Fairfax twisted the lens, but they were too far away to bring into focus. He trained the telescope back on Hancock. He had risen from his crouch and was standing, studying the floor of the trench. His head was moving slightly from left to right as he followed the progress of the lit fuse. He seemed to study it for a long time – certainly longer than Fairfax thought safe – then began walking towards them.

  He had only covered half the distance when the land at the base of the tower quivered and a section of the earth erupted like a roiling black fountain, shooting higher than the tower itself. An immense wave rushed underground towards them, the surface rippling like the water of a lake. Hancock,
running now, was thrust forward and off his feet – sent flying head first, as if he was diving off a cliff. Fairfax felt the pressure suck at his ears. He was blown backwards. Soil and small rocks descended from the heavens, blocking out the light. He heard nothing. All was muffled, silent.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The burial chamber

  WHEN HE OPENED his eyes, everything was different. A crater the size of a fishpond had appeared beside the tower. The structure itself was leaning slightly towards the south, away from the hills, which themselves seemed altered. Those trees closest to the crater had been toppled, their roots ripped out of the ground and exposed. Further up the slope, it was as if winter had returned. Branches were stripped of leaves; new springs were bubbling from the reconfigured land.

  He shook the soil out of his hair and looked around for Sarah and Shadwell. They had also been thrown backwards by the blast and were sitting up dazed nearby. Hancock lay motionless, face down, about fifty yards away, half covered by earth and surrounded by human bones that had been lifted from their common grave and deposited to the west.

  Fairfax rolled over on to his knees and got unsteadily to his feet. By then Sarah was also standing, brushing off dirt. Neither she nor Shadwell seemed to have suffered any injury, although nobody was speaking. But then he realised that everybody was speaking, himself included, and that nobody could hear. She cupped her hands to his ear. Her voice seemed to come from a great distance. ‘Are you hurt?’

  He shouted directly into her ear. ‘No. Are you?’

  She shook her head.

  When they turned to make the same enquiry of Shadwell, they found that he had already left them and was moving with the slow, strange gait of a sleepwalker towards the crater. Fairfax took Sarah’s hand and they stumbled after him.

  The old man passed Hancock without even looking at him. Fairfax was sure the captain must be dead. But when they reached him, they saw that he was moving slightly, unable to rise because of the weight of debris on his back. Together they began to clear away the small rocks and fragments of bone. A skull lying close by seemed to grin at their efforts. The back of Hancock’s coat was cut to pieces, bloody and crusted with dirt. In places his bare flesh was exposed. And yet somehow he found the strength to push himself up with his arms and clamber to his feet. Like the tower, he was not quite vertical. His eyes were unfocused. They moved to help support him, but he shrugged them away. Unsteadily, he turned to survey his handiwork, then lurched towards it.