One Damn Thing After Another

by Dan Latus

  There was no doubt about it. Martha was not a hostage. She was part of whatever was going on here. She even seemed to have a supervisory role. The men in the group were doing what she told them, and laughing at her jokes. This was the Martha I had met that first day, the ball-of-fire Martha who had arrived at The Chesters like a tornado. It was time to reassess once again. Martha is not what she seems. Why, oh why, hadn’t I taken Lenka more seriously?

  What about the child, Alysha? Was she here? Did she exist even? Or had she been part of the fantasy Martha had sketched in order to get out of a hole? I grimaced, feeling guilty. I’d done Leon a disservice. He had trusted me.

  But I still had to get inside the house. If there was a child, that was where she would be. At least now, though, I didn’t have to worry about rescuing Martha.

  I studied the situation some more. The house was being evacuated. There was no doubt about that. From what I could see, the people here were almost ready to leave. No more boxes were coming out to the truck, and no more suitcases to the car. Maybe I didn’t need to get inside. Alysha would surely be coming outside soon – if she existed.

  But I pressed on with my approach. I needed to know, to be sure. So I completed my circuit to the rear of the main building and cautiously approached a door in the back porch. It was big, black and probably ancient oakwood. The ironwork – the latch and the keyhole – were what you might have expected to find on an eighteenth century prison door. If the door was locked, it would be well locked with an enormous key.

  It wasn’t locked. I eased the door open and stepped inside, holding my breath. Dim light from a distant hallway showed me I was in a scullery of sorts. It was where wet weather gear was stored, as well as where big, dirty things could be washed in a huge ceramic sink. I edged around a massive tiled stove that once would have been kept burning day and night by brown coal, warming the house and supplying hot water. Now it was cold and still.

  You couldn’t say the rest of the house was quiet. Boots clattered on wooden floors. Men in a hurry called to one another. Russian voices. Doors were slammed. Things were dropped and thrown. What sounded like crockery fell and smashed. It sounded like a typical Russian withdrawal, leaving scorched earth and destruction behind. Uneasily, I wondered if the final act would be to burn the building to the ground. There were all sorts of reasons why they might think that a good idea.

  It suddenly seemed a bad idea for me to be there. I began to retreat, back towards the big oak door. Voices made me stop. I heard Martha’s voice raised in query. A man replied. Then, through a gap in the doorway in front of me, I saw them both emerge from a stairwell I hadn’t noticed.

  They paused and held a hurried conversation, in Russian. Martha clapped the man on the shoulder and turned away. It looked like she had given him instructions. She walked briskly away along a corridor. He started to descend the stairs.

  Something was going on down there, and that old curiosity drew me forward again. I moved quickly through the doorway to the head of the stairwell. For a moment I paused, listening. Then I headed down the stone steps, gun in hand. Something significant seemed to be down here. I needed to know what it was.

  Following the spiralling stone staircase, I descended cautiously, gun in hand, until the curve ended and I could see very plainly where I was. The view I had now left no time for contemplation. I had to act now, or not at all.

  There was a large open space down there in the basement. There was also a small room off it, with a door. In the open doorway, the man I had followed had taken out a gun and was about to shoot a trussed figure lying on the floor. As his gun came up to the firing position, I fired twice.

  He was hit, and spun away. His gun sought me. I fired again. This time he went down hard. I hurried over and checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one.

  My ears were ringing from the explosions, which were bound to have been heard elsewhere in the house. In case anybody came to check why there had been three shots fired, I had to move fast.

  The bound figure on the floor was wrapped in plastic sheeting that was fastened with tough duct tape. Even my Swiss Army knife struggled to cut through it. If I hadn’t seen the man I had killed raising his gun, I would have assumed the wrapped-up figure on the floor was a corpse, and I wouldn’t have bothered with it.

  But the figure moved as I wrestled with the wrappings. Definitely alive. I worked faster, concentrating on the head. Oxygen would be in short supply. I tore back the plastic from the face, and recoiled with shock. It was no innocent child I had uncovered.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  WHAT THE HELL! My heart jumped and I stared for a moment, scarcely able to believe it.

  Lenka? Surely not! But it was.

  Her eyes were shut and she didn’t seem to be breathing. I gritted my teeth and started searching for a pulse at the same time as I pulled frantically at the wrappings encasing her body.

  There was nothing in her neck or her wrist. I could feel nothing at all. Damn, damn, damn! If only I had arrived sooner.

  She was still warm, though. And she had moved. Surely it wasn’t too late? I reached under her jacket but could feel nothing. Warm skin but no pulse.

  It was too soon to give up. I delved deeper, down into her groin, forcing open her trousers and pants. That was very much the last resort. If there was nothing there, often the very last place for a pulse to survive, there would be no hope at all.

  Nothing. I could feel nothing, no movement. Nothing at all. I kept going, searching, pressing, desperate for some sign that life still lurked in that small lifeless body.

  Then I got something. My finger tips felt a small tremor. It was enough. I ripped her clothing away and got down on my knees to try CPR, my own pulse racing now as a surge of hope tore through me.

  I could have done with some help, a partner to share the load, but I was all there was. I clung on and pumped like mad, and was rewarded after a minute or two by signs of stirring. I turned her on her side and pulled away to get some air into my own lungs. Suddenly Lenka’s mouth opened and a dribble of vomit, blood and saliva oozed out of it.

  Simultaneously I heard less welcome signs. Someone was coming down the steps. I grabbed the Glock from the floor and straightened up fast.

  A female voice – Martha’s – called out querulously. I assumed she wanted to know what was going on, where the man was.

  Martha came into view, as did a man behind her. She saw me, and she saw the gun. She froze.

  ‘Come on down, Martha,’ I said grimly.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Frank!’

  She was recovering fast.

  ‘Now!’ I snapped.

  But she dived sideways. The man behind her opened fire with an automatic weapon. I fired back as they both withdrew, but I had no idea whether either of them was hit.

  From the foot of the steps, I fired again, futilely it seemed. They had got back to the top, and I was still down here, trapped now.

  There was a pause, a quiet minute or two. I guessed one of them had gone for reinforcements. Rushing up the steps before they arrived was an option, but one I dismissed very quickly. I wasn’t in suicide mode. Not yet.

  ‘Come on up, Frank!’ Martha called. ‘There’s no reason for you both to die down there. No reason for that at all. Let’s talk sense.’

  ‘Fuck you, Martha!’

  I fired another round up the stairwell, but only the one. Once these bullets were gone, I had no others.

  ‘Last chance, Frank! Are you coming?’

  Somehow I avoided roaring abuse at her, and telling her what a lying, treacherous, scheming bitch she was. That might have made her believe she had won. I didn’t want that. So I kept quiet, but it wasn’t easy.

  There was no more dialogue between us. A few seconds later there was a very loud clang and I realized the entrance to the stairwell leading down to the cellar had probably been sealed with a heavy trapdoor, and no doubt bolted as well. The relief that there would be no more bullets coming my way soon gav
e way to the realization that the situation was not much better. The cellar had only that one entrance.

  A rustling behind me brought me spinning round. In the minute or two of desperation and chaos, I had almost forgotten Lenka. But she was still there. And she was moving.

  Not moving very much, I have to say. But an arm had flopped sideways, she was wriggling a bit and an eye had opened. It wasn’t much, but it was very welcome.

  I crossed over to her and got down to strip the rest of the plastic sheeting away from her.

  ‘Welcome back!’ I said, doing my best to give her a cheery smile. ‘You had me worried for a minute or two.’

  ‘Frank? Frank, where am I?’ she croaked.

  She was speaking, and speaking in English. So she had recognized me. Her brain was working again. It hadn’t been damaged

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I said as cheerfully as I could manage, ‘and I don’t know all of it myself. Let me help you sit up.’

  I got her in a sitting position, her back against the wall. Then I went hunting around the cellar. I found a tap and brought her some water in an old jam jar I rinsed out first. She was able to take hold of the jar after she had taken a few sips. So I left her with it and went searching again, this time for a way out of the cellar.

  I didn’t find one. What I did discover was that the cellar was every bit as secure and impregnable seeming as I had feared. My spirits sank as I grasped there really were no easy options. The place was built of big, solid stone blocks that provided the foundations for the house. Walls, floor and the vaulted ceiling were all the same. It was also below ground. There wasn’t even a tiny window.

  I grimaced and made my way back to the stairwell. I didn’t have any hopes about that, either, but I had to make sure. The top of the steps was closed off now by a big, solid trapdoor, as I had thought. It was made of timber, but it might just as well have been cast iron or steel. My knuckles didn’t get a sound out of it when I rapped hard. Nor could I raise it even a millimetre.

  I went back down the steps and took another look at Lenka. ‘How are you feeling?’

  She nodded. ‘Fine,’ she said with determination, but her attempted grin just looked sickly. ‘Give me another minute.’

  I didn’t ask what the hell had happened to her. The priority was getting out of here, and soon. My fear, and expectation, was that when Martha and the rest of the gang abandoned the house, they would set it alight to conceal any evidence they might inadvertently leave behind. Fingerprints and DNA do not survive fire. So if we didn’t get out soon, we might not get out at all.

  There wasn’t much in the cellar to give me hope. It was devoid of tools and equipment, as well as of alternative exits. In fact, it was pretty well bare, a stone box without ornament or redeeming features. The only exceptional thing in it was a big drainpipe that ran from ceiling to floor in one corner. It looked like the main drain for the building. The only other good thing was that we were not in darkness. They had forgotten, or hadn’t bothered, to switch off the light.

  I studied the drainpipe. It was cast iron and about a foot in diameter. My guess was that although it was corroded, it was a lot younger than the house. When houses like this were built, they wouldn’t have had any inside drainage at all, any more than they would have had running water.

  There were implications from that. One was that at some point in the house’s long life, a hole must have been cut in the vaulted ceiling to allow the pipe to be inserted. I doubted if a hole had been drilled and cut all the way through a solid stone block. More likely was that a block had been removed, the pipe inserted and then the surrounding space filled with something or other. Possibly bits of stone in some sort of primitive cement. With growing interest, I wondered if there might be a weakness I could exploit.

  ‘What did you do to me, Frank?’

  I turned around, and saw Lenka struggling to pull her clothing back into position.

  ‘Saved your life,’ I snapped, impatient with the insinuation.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said then, looking up at me with a tired smile.

  I shook my head. ‘Jesus, Lenka!’

  I didn’t want to tell her how I had found her. She could work that out for herself. ‘Feeling better?’ I asked instead.

  She nodded. Then she began to get to her feet, sliding herself up the wall.

  ‘How did you get here anyway?’ I asked, reaching out a hand to steady her.

  ‘Leon sent me. I followed them.’

  ‘Leon sent you? He said nothing to me.’

  ‘I was your back-up, in case you lost them.’

  I just stared at her for a moment, thinking it would have been nice if somebody had said something about all this to me before now.

  ‘It is how we work,’ she said softly. ‘Always. I told you that once before, in Montenegro.’

  ‘Trust nobody?’

  After a brief pause, she nodded.

  ‘You Podolskys!’ I muttered, exasperated.

  Lenka grinned and said, ‘What now, Frank? Do you have any idea how to get us out of here?’

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  WITH LENKA WATCHING CLOSELY, I tested the drainpipe, pulling it first one way and then the other. Nothing happened. I could feel no give at all. Corroded it might be, but that pipe was made of strong stuff, and seemed good for a lot of years yet.

  Even so, I worked away at it. After a few minutes Lenka joined me, lending her weight and whatever power she could summon to the task. It made no difference. Lenka gave up and retreated. I didn’t blame her. She was lucky still to be breathing, never mind working, the ordeal she had undergone.

  I stuck at it. Possibly the pipe moved fractionally, infinitesimally. Possibly. But probably not. I kept going. In my desperation, I fancied I could smell smoke.

  Then Lenka returned, bringing with her a wooden pole she had found somewhere. I stood back as she inserted it behind the pipe and invited me to use it as a lever against the wall. This time the pipe did move. Not by much, but I could feel it tremble. I could hear it creak, too.

  Lenka added her weight, and with both of us pulling together, the pipe really moved. We heaved once more. The pipe groaned and leant away from the wall a little.

  ‘Again!’ I yelled, confidence growing.

  This time the pipe suddenly gave way. It came away from the wall altogether and a section of it fell into the cellar, showering us with white dust. I wiped my eyes and coughed. When I looked up, the dust had cleared and I could see a hole. Above the hole there was a dancing, flickering light. Smoke began to pour through the gap we had created, and we fell back, coughing.

  There wasn’t much time to spare or to waste. I stood back and started ramming the edges of the gap with the wooden pole we had been using as a lever. I made the hole slightly larger, but not a lot. I could see now that rather than removing the block of stone, the pipe fitters had drilled and chiselled a hole through it to accommodate the pipe. I felt like screaming with frustration and rage.

  I despaired. My head might go through the gap, but not much else. The hole was far too small for an escape route, no matter how hard I jabbed at the surrounding stone.

  Lenka tugged at my jacket, trying to pull me out of the way. ‘Let me try, Frank.’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s no good, Lenka.’

  ‘Come on, Frank!’ she said impatiently, the fire back in her voice. ‘Lift me!’

  I studied the hole for a moment. Then I leant down, got her on my shoulders and stood up, thrusting her towards the ceiling. It looked pretty futile to me, but we had to try.

  Lenka contorted her body. She thrust one arm through the hole first. Then she ducked her head and wriggled upwards, her other arm dangling. But it was no good. I felt her weight on my shoulders as she came back down.

  I set her back on the ground, and she immediately began to work her way out of her jacket. Off it came, followed by her shirt and trousers. She stripped down to her underwear, glanced up at me with a grin and said, ‘You already k
now what I am like underneath, Frank. Don’t look so shocked, please.’

  I smiled sheepishly. ‘You think there’s a chance?’

  ‘Let’s see,’ she said, the bounce and confidence, and the strength, returning. ‘Lift me again, please.’

  She actually felt lighter without her clothes. Ridiculous, I know, but she really did. I began to feel a stirring of hope as her bare legs wrapped themselves around my head and neck and she pressed herself higher.

  It was a terrible struggle. I lost hope again, but Lenka persevered long after it was reasonable. She contorted her body and squeezed one bit after another of herself through that ridiculously tiny gap in the stonework. This time she worked both arms through first, and then her head. But it was only as her legs left my shoulders, that I realized she was finally through. She had done it!

  I stepped back, coughing from the smoke pouring through the gap now Lenka was no longer blocking it. I wiped my eyes and face, and waited. I expected to hear her call something to me, but that didn’t happen. I began to worry. Had she passed out in the smoke? Had she collapsed?

  Then I heard noise from the stairwell, a scraping and creaking, followed by a loud clang as the trapdoor was raised and dropped against the wall.

  ‘Please bring my clothes, Frank!’ Lenka called. ‘We must hurry!’

  I scooped up her clothing and scrambled for the steps.

  Upstairs there was smoke and dancing light, and the roar of the flames as they devoured the house. Everything was well ablaze. Fortunately, the top of the stairwell was close to the rear entrance to the house. Coughing badly, shielding our faces, we dashed for the back door, with me half-carrying the near naked and exhausted Lenka.

  We emerged into wonderfully cool air and kept going. We didn’t stop – not even for Lenka to dress – until we were a hundred yards away from the house. Then I relented and halted our mad race. Lenka was pretty well done by then, out on her feet, and I wasn’t much better myself.