The door was right in front of him, as he had known it would be, and on either side coffins stretched back into darkness. In some ways, seeing where he was proved more horrifying than imagining it in the dark. The light burnt for its short life, then flickered and went out.
He got to his feet and struck a second match, and this time he scrutinised one side of the door carefully. Using a third match, he did the same with the other side. When the flame died, his hope, slender though it had been, died with it. There was nothing but the flat wooden surface of the inside of a door through which it had never been intended that anyone should pass back to the light. No handle, no knob, no bolt, no fixture of any kind that would bypass the lock.
He sank back onto his haunches and contemplated suicide. Anything but stay here in the dark, starving, breathing in stale air, ripening to death like a decaying fruit in a speeded-up video installation. He could try choking himself to death with his handkerchief rolled into a ball, but he knew that the vomit reflex in his throat would make him spit it out again. Death would come to him slowly and in delirium.
And then he thought of fire. He had it in his means to light a fire that might engulf him and kill him in due course. But where would he find enough kindling, and how could he create enough heat to burn himself without suffering cruel pain?
Perhaps he could find a cord somewhere, and a hook to tie it to, and strangle himself. Prisoners in cells managed it. As a young policeman, he’d once had to cut a man down in the cells beneath the magistrates’ courts, too late to save his life. Some managed it with shoelaces, others with neckties. He had neither.
He went over it all again, thinking himself through all the ways to end a human life, and he declared himself bereft of ideas. It occurred to him that, if he could bring himself to it, he could open one of the older coffins and plunder the skeleton inside. A broken leg bone might be sharp enough to let him cut his wrists or his throat. But how to break a coffin open without tools?
That was when he thought of fire again. The coffins were covered in cloth, cloth that would burn like a dream, and beneath the cloth was wood that would catch fire, and beneath the lid lay a lining, and beneath that a shroud. If he could burn off a lid enough to let him break it, he could do the rest. But it would be a waste of time if he could not steel himself to dig through rotten flesh to find a suitable bone, or use a fragment of bone to cut his own flesh to the bone.
And then he realised he would not need to go so far. All he had to do was set a lighted coffin against the door, get it burning until the dry wooden door caught light and burnt. If he could ignite a fierce enough flame, the door would give way in time, and he could burst it open. If he didn’t choke to death on the smoke first. But if he could punch a hole in the door early enough in the process, he could create a vent through which most of the smoke would escape.
Would it work? He shrugged. He’d thought of everything else and drawn a blank. If he didn’t act soon, the cold would send him back to sleep, and he might not wake up. That would be a peaceful enough end, but he feared it more than all the others.
He put the box of matches back into his pocket, in case he crushed them while trying to set a fire. In the dark again, and fumbling, he walked back down the wide aisle, stopping halfway to select one of the older coffins. Older cloth, older wood, older bones; he hoped this combination would help create quicker flames and greater heat.
The coffin fitted tightly inside its niche, but there was just enough space on either side for him to push his hands through, grazing his knuckles on the rough stone. Pulling the dead weight out would not be easy, he thought. But he had no choice. He got what purchase he could on the outer wrapper of felt, hoping the cloth would hold long enough for him to get a foot or so of the box out of its hole. He pulled, but the coffin would not budge. Taking a deep breath, he exerted all his strength; the cloth ripped on both sides, and he fell backwards, winding himself as he crashed into the array of coffins on the other side.
Picking himself up, he chose another coffin at random, this time slipping his hands beneath the box, with his thumbs above. The felt cloth tore again, but this time it did so nearer the broad-headed nails that held it in place close to the foot of the coffin. This in turn formed a handle of sorts that held long enough for Ethan to pull the coffin a fair distance from its niche.
Bit by bit, inch by inch, he yanked and dragged the long wooden box out into the aisle. As the head finally came free and crashed onto the floor, Ethan felt his arms drained of strength. He sat again, waiting for the blood supply to return, fearing again that gentle lapse, that slip into unconsciousness that would imprison him here for ever.
Pushing now, he got the coffin to the door and laid it lengthways against it. He was so far weakened by his exertions that he knew he would have to make do with a single coffin. He knew he would never find the strength to drag another from its niche.
Bracing himself, he stood next to the coffin, raised his foot, and brought it down on the lid with all the strength he could muster. It was little enough. The wood splintered, but the lid did not seem to break through. Again, he stamped down, and this time the lid cracked beneath him, and his foot went down into something that gave way like ice on a pond. Something that must have been bone shattered like twigs breaking. Despite the dark, he shut his eyes, hating to think what else his foot had come into contact with. Gingerly, he removed it from the jagged hole he’d created, moved it a foot to one side, and stamped down hard again. Wood and bone gave way, and this time something sharp tore his ankle.
He did it twice again, then stood breathless and filled with revulsion by the broken coffin. Reaching inside his pocket, he drew out the matchbox and opened it. His hand shook as he removed the first match, but he clenched his jaw and forced himself to strike it.
Bright flame shot up again. Pausing only to look for the first hole, he held the match into the coffin. Instantly, the tiny flame caught something inside, and he withdrew it, using the last part to ignite the baize covering. A second match set alight more of the shroud and inner lining, and a third, and a fourth. Everything he touched was dry as tinder. He grabbed the coffin from beneath and tilted it, so that the blossoming flames burnt with growing strength against the door.
Though he covered his mouth and nostrils with a handkerchief, the smoke drifted up into his eyes, and slowly began to work its way through his nose into his lungs. As the blaze grew, so the smoke became thicker and more corrosive. He was finally forced to stagger back, coughing and choking.
Recovering his breath, he ran towards the door and kicked it hard low down, where the flames had taken hold. It gave slightly, but the smoke forced him back again. His eyes were stinging, and his throat burnt with the acrid fumes. He retreated again. The flames were bright enough now to illuminate more of the door and the burning coffin, but he could see that they had not taken hold sufficiently to ensure a constant blaze. The smoke was spreading persistently through the vault. If he could not create a vent, he would soon be overcome.
He ran back, and this time managed to tilt the coffin far enough for it to wedge itself against the door, allowing the flames to catch hold of the side and bottom. Something rattled and shook within the box as he moved it. Coughing deeply now, he pulled back again and waited as long as he could for the flames to bite more deeply into the wood.
Holding the handkerchief tightly against his face, he ran forward again, kicking again and again at the charred door. Just as he was about to stagger away, he felt something give, and his foot went out, piercing through a hole that further lacerated his ankle. But as he looked down, he saw what seemed wholly miraculous to him, a broad lance of sunlight pouring into the mausoleum from outside. The smoke, granted a means of escape from the charnel house, rushed through the hole, blotting out the sunlight. Ethan went back as far as he could and watched as the flames took firm hold. Then forward again, kicking at the space around the hole, widening it, allowing more smoke to billow out.
Once the
door was burning fiercely, Ethan waited. His lungs were still seared by the black smoke, his eyes were red and puffy, and he could barely open them. From time to time, he would open them a crack, to see how far the flames had advanced, and at last he saw them overcome the centre of the door. The spot where the lock was situated. Too soon, and he might yet fall foul of the fumes, too late and he would certainly succumb. He waited as long as seemed to him reasonable, then ran full tilt against the door; he took it in the centre with his right shoulder, crying out with pain as he struck it, but it gave, and he shoved again, harder now with desperation, and a third time, and the wood broke, the lock separated one half from the other, the door burst open, and he fell, head over heels, coughing and spluttering, bleeding and torn, tumbling onto the mausoleum steps, and down onto the thick snow, where he lay weeping in the sunlight, sucking in fresh air that tasted like the finest wine. Blackness started to come over him then, and sleep, a desperate, gnawing need for sleep; but he knew that the snow and the air would kill him as soon as smoke or famine. Pushed to the limit now, he got to his feet and stumbled across the curve of white field in the direction of the house.
9
Between Heaven and Hell
Thoughts of hell in high coffins filled Sarah’s head at every moment. She could not clear that glimpse of the spider-haunted tomb from her mind, the stacks of coffins, the final darkness of that foul habitation. Nor could she dig deep enough into her thoughts to eradicate all memory of what had been done to Ethan. That blow on the head, the heavy crash of the doors shutting him inside, the clunk of the key as Beauty turned it in the lock. What had happened to her, what was happening to her, was nothing when set against that blow, that cruel consignment to a fate of unimaginable horror. Perhaps the blow had killed him, she thought, thinking that the best thing. But she could not rid herself of the image of him coming round in the darkness, of the slow realisation of where he was, of the slow death he would suffer, of the madness that might take him before the end.
She shuddered, and tried to ease the pain in her legs, but as she twisted, the pain worsened, forcing her to turn back to her original position. The German had injected her with something when they’d finished at the lodge, and everything had gone black. There had been dreams, terrible dreams, nightmares really – no, more than that, a sort of hell without flames, a kind of passage through some underworld of misery and fear. She’d come round to find herself strapped to some sort of narrow table, with leather straps across her legs and hips and chest, and as she’d grown more alert, pains had started all across her body, and with the pains memories she wanted to destroy but could not.
Whatever drug they’d given her was wearing off now, but its after-effects lingered. Her head was pounding, her brain felt as though a master chef had sliced it into thin pieces, her skin crawled as though ten thousand spiders from hell were dancing a tarantella across her flesh, her stomach heaved as though some dark poisoned wine had been poured down her throat.
But none of these pains and discomforts troubled her half as much as the bruising and burning she felt between her legs. She squeezed her eyes shut against tears, as vivid memories of the rape flashed through her mind. Her heart lurched again as the memories acquired detail, as if each loathsome moment had been stored in her body.
It was, of course, a mistake to speak of ‘the rape’, for they had raped her more than once, taking turns. How many times, she could not be entirely sure; but the agony of being taken by force, without response or will on her part, the stench of the big man’s body, the mechanical thrusting, the tearing, the knowledge that this was done, not for anyone’s pleasure, but as a token of humiliation and as a warning – all this had choked and bewildered her, cutting her off from her own feelings, turning what had once been an intensely pleasurable act into something monstrous.
The German (if that was what he was) had told her several times that the rapes were a prefiguration of what would happen to her later if she did not play ball. Where they were going, he said, other men were waiting, men who would gladly use her in the same way, carelessly, as the mood took them, or lust dictated. She would be left naked and bound for them, in a room open at all hours of the day. Sometimes they would visit her singly, sometimes in pairs, often in small groups.
Unless, he said, she cooperated fully.
‘What do you want me to do?’ she had asked. ‘How can I cooperate?’
But he’d told her to wait, said that all would be made clear in time.
They had raped her in the lodge, in the main bedroom. They had gagged her to stop her screaming. She’d been tied to the bed, and all the time, if she turned her head, she could see through the bedroom window to Woodmancote, a shadow in the darkness. The screams had all erupted in her own head. She wondered if either of them had AIDS.
As she grew more aware, she realised she was strapped to a stretcher in what looked like an ambulance. There was no one inside the main compartment with her, but if she raised her head, she could see a curtained window in front of which lay the driver’s cab. In an effort to relieve her physical distress, she succeeded in getting the lower part of her right hand free from the strap. From the size and design of the ambulance, she guessed it must be private. Were they taking her to a hospital or clinic somewhere? She felt cold at the thought. What would they intend to do with her in a place like that?
On her right, a venetian blind covered a side window. The cord was just out of her reach but, reinvigorated, she squirmed and twisted until her fingers gained a tight enough grip on it to pull. Slowly, the blind lifted, far enough for her to see out. As she turned her face to look out, the ambulance slowed down.
She saw part of a street with old cars parked by the kerb. A cart drawn by a donkey ambled past in the opposite direction, then they were passing a row of odd-looking shops. The sign above one read as Macelarie. She had no idea what language it was. As they neared the end of the row, the ambulance turned into a narrow track and the buildings were replaced by dark trees whose branches hung beneath the weight of snow.
She let the blind fall back into place. Much as she wanted to continue looking out, she knew it would mean running a risk should her captors know she’d seen through the window. Reluctantly, she slipped her forearm back under the strap and let her head drop down once more onto the stretcher.
At least she knew one thing: she was no longer in England.
Ethan got to the house just as fresh snow clouds mounted the horizon and began to empty themselves across the frozen fields. He had no key, and for a long moment feared he might not get back inside. He had no idea what time of day it was, or even if hours had passed or a day or two days. And it occurred to him that Beauty and the Beast might still be in the hall.
But as he rounded the side of the house and came to the front, he saw cars parked in the drive, including several police cars. They were still doing the forensic work, he thought with relief. He went up to the young constable who’d been posted at the front door.
‘I’m DCI Usherwood,’ he said. ‘I think you’d better let me in.’
It turned out to be the same day, early afternoon. Boxing Day. The snow showed no sign of abating. All things were frozen, the world was like folded paper. Apart from the cuts on his ankles and scrapes on his hands, Ethan had not suffered great injury. The police team all knew him, and were shocked by his appearance. He was filthy, and parts of his upper clothing had been charred in the fire.
The house was full of police. Bob Forbes said the search for forensic evidence had been widened, and that his bedroom was currently under investigation. Someone took him to a spare room, where a fire was lit and fresh clothes brought from his suitcase. They asked if he needed a doctor, but he shook his head and said the first-aid box would be enough.
Hot water was drawn from the unreliable old boiler, and half a bath filled. While he luxuriated in the water, DCI Forbes came to talk to him. Ethan explained what had happened, and insisted they start a hunt for Sarah right away. Forb
es gave orders to a junior detective, who went off to alert headquarters.
‘We’ll need a photograph,’ said Bob, ‘details of what she was wearing, all the usual stuff.’
There was a good-quality photo in Gerald’s bedroom, in a frame on the bedside table. Ethan added what details he could remember, then went down to the kitchen to fix himself something to eat. Sitting at the table brought back vivid memories of the previous evening. What had happened during that meal? he wondered. He’d never met anyone like Sarah before, and he cursed his bad luck everyone thought she was his niece. They weren’t blood relations at all, but if they wound up together, it would certainly look like incest, and that would hardly go down well in the family or anywhere else. The awful thing was, he had only ever felt this way about one person in his life before. Abi. And the events of last night had intensified his feelings, made raw by fear and a desperate need to protect Sarah from the brutes who’d taken her. Or killed her. He shuddered, and realised there was something he’d forgotten.
He asked Mary Boyd, a detective he’d worked with on several important cases, if the forensic team was planning to go through the library.
‘I don’t think so, sir. Maybe later. Do you want something in there?’
‘Just a book,’ he said. ‘There’s something I want to check. I was reading it yesterday.’
‘I’m sure that will be OK, sir. This is your house, isn’t it?’
‘It’s the family house.’
‘He was your uncle or something, wasn’t he? One of the victims?’
‘Grandfather. I was very close to him. It’s a huge blow.’
She sympathised, then he went to the library. No one was there, and it took him only moments to find the book and put the letter and map in his pocket.
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