The Silent Sleep of the Dying (Eisenmenger-Flemming Forensic Mysteries) (46 page)

She looked around. On the benches were various mysterious items of equipment — could they be hiding Proteus? She opted first to go for the large refrigerator and upright freezer on the opposite wall. She hobbled over as quickly as she could, the pain in her leg now so intense that she had to adopt a near-stumbling gait as she moved in order to reduce the weight on it.

Why
hasn't
it
come
yet
?
It's
going
to
come
soon
.

She reached the refrigerator, opened it and saw it at once. Stein had been methodical, the good scientist, and he had ensured that there would be no mistake. The plastic vial was labelled with a clarity that was absurd. PROTEUS — what else? She grabbed it and thrust it into her jacket pocket. Then she turned and began to force herself through the regular spearing pain that was movement. She reached the door to the lab, went out on to the small dark landing, thence to the stairs.

Where
is
the
explosion
?
It
should
have
gone
off
by
now
.
Why
hasn't
it
?
Perhaps
it
won't
,
perhaps
he
didn't
set
it
properly
…

The first step demonstrated with harsh but elegant efficiency that getting down the stairways was going to be even worse than going up. The only way she could manage it was by leading with her other leg, grabbing the banister rail with her free hand, and effectively sliding in jerks and hops downwards.

She made it to the first landing, with relatively little increase in agony, glad to be in the light and closer to escape, but aware that to get out she would have to go past the bomb — if it went off at the wrong time …

She hobbled along the landing, cursing its length. The torment in her leg, grating with acid venom every time she moved was being joined by groaning, whining protest from all her other muscles as they were strained by what she was asking them to do. Her mouth and throat felt sandblasted, her chest a bag of burning coals. She made it to the end of the landing rail, put her hand on the newel post to help her turn to go down the last flight when the whole house shook violently, and there was an almighty, booming explosion and a rumbling, rolling cloud of searing hot flame reared up the stairwell to consume her.

*

Beverley had been left shouting into the wind as Helena ran off. What the hell was going on? She had started to run after her but she soon stopped. She wasn't a coward but there was no point in blindly following her into a house that was shortly going to explode. She looked back at Eisenmenger, who had come to again and once more was trying to rise. She knelt down beside him. "What's going on?"

Eisenmenger, by now on one elbow, said, "Got to get Proteus." His lips were ragged and his words were slurred.

"Proteus?"

"There must be a sample of Proteus in there. Got to get it." He painfully and slowly was trying to get on to his knees. Beverley put her hand out to him. "Don't bother. Helena's gone back in."

He looked at her, shock and fear brightening his eyes.

*

Beverley looked at her watch again. Already it was two minutes after the time she had estimated to detonation, still no explosion, but still no Helena. She had found the keys to the Land Rover in MacCallum's pockets and had brought it as close as she dared to the house, the engine running. If Helena appeared, she could at least get her away from the vicinity as quickly as possible.

Then the ground floor of the house turned yellow-white, the windows erupted and a sudden, deafening bang made her jump. She watched in horror as bright white droplets of burning, viscous liquid fell, hissing into the wet grass around her, like acid-filled fireflies.

*

Helena had turned away, pivoting on her injured leg, the scream of agony suddenly an old friend, a nodal point around which she could at least focus. The heat clamped itself to her back, tried to claw around her face, into her eyes. She dropped to the floor, but the heat on her back was getting exponentially worse.

Christ
!
I'm
on
fire
!

She rolled on to her back, trying to smother the flame, like a dog in the dust. Her eyes saw small but expanding points of fire all around her on the floor, smoke becoming fat and turgid as it snaked its serpentine way around the walls and ceiling. Flakes of ash hovered everywhere around her.

At last the fire on her back was out, but the atmosphere was rapidly becoming unbreathable. Already the heat was stripping the lining of her mouth, nose and throat, while there came to her a horrible roaring rush of noise, like a great beast calling for more nourishment. Through the smoke she saw flickering lights dancing with ominous shadows on the wall of the stairwell. She rolled on to her front, then on to her knees. She edged forward to peer around the newel post, already very much aware of what she would see down the stairs.

It looked like the seventh circle of Hell.

*

Beverley knew that nobody was going to get out of there, even if they survived the initial explosion, but she wasn't going to turn away without at least trying. Hoping that nothing else was likely to explode, she put the Land Rover into gear and sped forward, stopping about ten metres from the fire; even inside the car the heat was intolerable. She'd never be able to get closer. She reversed a short way, turned hard left and drove fast around the side of the house, then to the back.

Here it was hot, but bearable. Through the windows she could see flame beginning to tongue its way into the rooms at the rear. She manoeuvred the Land Rover so that it was facing away from the house then, leaving the engine running and both doors open, she went to the back door and entered the house.

*

Helena wondered how long she had. Too long, she suspected. And would it be the smoke or the fire? God, she hoped that it would be smoke. Surely she was owed that? She sat on the floor, her back against the landing banisters, coughing almost continuously now. Waiting. She checked that she still had the vial that contained Proteus safely in her pocket.

That's
what
it
all
comes
down
to
in
the
end
.
Waiting
. As
soon
as
we're
born
,
we
start
the
process
of
waiting
for
death
.
Our
lives
are
merely
diversions
to
occupy
the
time
.

The smoke was so dense now that could hardly see the doors opposite her. The noise of the fire was getting louder, too. Louder and more menacing …

Abruptly she opened her eyes. She had almost lost consciousness. The heat was hideous. She began to crawl away from the heat, back along the landing, thinking to get as far away from the fire as she could.

She was aware that all she was doing was looking for a place to die.

*

In the kitchen Beverley found a drawer full of towels. She pulled out two, wet them thoroughly and put one around her head, covering her nose and mouth; the other she put over her shoulder.

The room was filling with smoke and there was low grumbling, flecked with sporadic crackles, coming from behind the door. She went to the door, feeling the heat, hearing the lascivious sounds of attentive flames. She decided she would really rather not open it, not unless she had to. If Helena had been downstairs when the bomb exploded, she was dead. Her only chance was to have been on one of the upper floors, but that meant that her only hope of rescue was if there was another staircase. It was a big house; it was a possibility, but not a certainty.

She looked around the kitchen. There was another door in the far left-hand corner. When she opened it, it led her through to a long narrow conservatory against the middle of the back of the house. The plants within were all long dead, left to decay to sand-coloured dust. At its far end was another door; this was locked but the wooden frame was rotten and a single kick with her heel got her through.

A dimly-lit corridor, and even here there was a pungency of acrid smoke.
The
whole
of
the
front
must
be
ablaze
.
It's
going
to
collapse
soon
.

Another complication.

At the end of the corridor, having stumbled over piles of newspaper, many chewed into dust and shreds by mice, she reached another door. It didn't appear to have a lock, but there were newspapers piled high against it that she had to pull down and move aside. When she looked back, there was definitely more smoke.

She opened the door.

A staircase.

She allowed herself a brief spasm of hope, then ran up the stairs, to find a minute landing …

… and another locked door.

For
fuck's
sake
!

There was no room to kick. She put her shoulder to the door but this time there was no help from rotten wood and the door held. She did it again, but there wasn't enough room to give her a reasonable run up, and the door still wouldn't give.

Something flipped. Anger, frustration, disbelief and sheer, bloody obstinacy curdled inside her and formed a gestalt of rage. She began pounding with her shoulder into the door, again and again, as hard as she could, ignoring the increasing pain. She started to shout, to scream. The towel around her face became unravelled, allowing her words and cries to be loosed upon the smoke and smell of burning.

When the door gave, it did so suddenly, as if playing a trick, so that she was injected suddenly into the room, her fall being broken by a bed. Raising her head, her eyes met an ancient alarm clock on the bedside cabinet; it was identical to one that her mother had once owned, and somehow, incredibly, she was momentarily back in her childhood, safe and warm and unaccountably content.

She picked herself up at once, overcome by coughing, for the smoke in the room was far denser. She put the towel around her face and head again, then headed for the door, still coughing, her chest muscles feeling not only in torment but also loose, as if she were shaking herself to bits.

Surely
it's
not
locked
.
Please
?

This door was hot, the handle unbearably so. There was smoke framing it, liquidly stroking its edges. If it opened onto a closed space in which there was fire, she would be incinerated very quickly when she opened the door, probably no matter where she stood. Yet she hadn't come this far to leave now, not like this.

She grabbed the bedspread off the bed, wrapped it round her hand, turned the handle and pulled, wondering what it would feel like to be in the face of a giant blowtorch …

There was unbelievable, blasting heat and, for the smallest part of a second she thought that she was being roasted, but then she knew that she was not dead. Not yet.

It could have been the inside of a blast furnace. There was just smoke; smoke and heat, illuminated by yellow-orange fires that were smeared out by the soot and ash and dense smoke. She began coughing at once — this time, real coughing, as if her lungs were completely unable to live with what she gave them, as if they were thrashing about in torment.

She stepped in. The brightest light was ahead of her and to the right; it was from here that a noise of greedy roaring was coming. She looked around, saw that she was at the end of a long corridor, doors on both sides; a landing, she surmised. She had no choice about which way to go; unfortunately that way was towards a fiercely bright, roaring light. It looked like the heart of hell. If she went too far along the landing, she would not only fail, she would most probably die.

She dropped to her knees and began crawling through ash. At once she was questioning how long she could last, for the heat increased with every step.

A
few
more
seconds
.
That's
all
I've
got
.
I'll
have
to
turn
back
if
I
don't
find
her
in
that
time
.
I
don't
see
that
I'll
be
able
to
search
anywhere
else
.
Supposing
…