“I’m a British citizen,” said Tommy under his breath. “I won’t be detained here for any sort of vigilante court.”
At once the crowd shifted and moved against them, pushing them slowly from the head of the table, towards the foot. Hands had taken hold of Marklin’s arms. That unspeakable Hollingshed had hold of him. He heard Tommy protest once more, “Let me go,” but it was now utterly impossible. They were being pressed into the corridor and down it, the soft thudding of feet on the waxed boards echoing up beneath the wooden arches. It was a mob which had caught him, a mob from which he couldn’t conceivably escape.
With a loud metallic shuffle and crack, the doors of the old elevator were thrown back. Marklin was shoved inside, turning frantically, a claustrophobia gripping him that again pushed him to scream.
But the doors were sliding shut. He and Tommy stood pressed against each other, surrounded by Harberson, Enzo, Elvera, the dark-haired tall one, and Hollingshed and several other men, strong men.
The elevator was clattering and wobbling its way down. Into the cellars.
“What are you going to do to us?” he demanded suddenly.
“I insist upon being taken to the main floor again,” said Tommy disdainfully. “I insist upon immediate release.”
“There are certain crimes we find unspeakable,” said Elvera softly, her eyes fixed on Tommy now, thank heaven. “Certain things which, as an order, we cannot possibly forgive or forget.”
“Which means what, I’d like to know!” said Tommy.
The heavy old elevator stopped with a shattering jolt. Then it was out into the passage, the hands hurting Marklin’s arms.
They were being taken along some unknown route in the cellars, down a corridor supported with crude wooden beams, rather like a mineshaft. The smell of the earth was around them. All the others were beside them or behind them now. They could see two doors at the end of this passage, large wooden doors inset beneath a low arch, and bolted shut.
“You think you can detain me here against my will?” said Tommy. “I’m a British citizen.”
“You killed Aaron Lightner,” said Harberson.
“You killed others in our name,” said Enzo. And there was his brother beside him, repeating in a maddening echo the very same words.
“You besmirched us in the eyes of others,” said Hollingshed. “You did unspeakable evil in our name!”
“I confess to nothing,” said Tommy.
“We don’t require you to confess,” said Elvera.
“We don’t require anything of you,” said Enzo.
“Aaron died believing your lies!” said Hollingshed.
“God damn it, I will not stand for this!” roared Tommy.
But Marklin could not bring himself to be indignant, outraged, whatever it was he ought to be, that they were holding him prisoner, forcing him now towards the doors.
“Wait a minute, wait, please, don’t. Wait,” he stammered. He begged. “Did Stuart kill himself? What happened to Stuart? If Stuart were here, he would exonerate us, you can’t really think that someone of Stuart’s years …”
“Save your lies for God,” said Elvera softly. “All night long we’ve examined the evidence. We’ve spoken with your white-haired goddess. Unburden your soul of the truth to us, if you wish, but don’t bother us with your lies.”
The figures closed ranks tightly against them. They were being moved closer and closer to this chamber or room or dungeon, perhaps, Marklin couldn’t know.
“Stop!” he cried suddenly. “In the name of God! Stop! There are things you don’t know about Tessa, things you simply don’t understand.”
“Don’t cater to them, you idiot!” snarled Tommy. “Do you think my father won’t be asking questions! I’m not a bloody orphan! I have a huge family. Do you think-”
A strong arm gripped Marklin about the waist. Another was clamped around his neck. The doors were being opened inward. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tommy struggling, knee bent, foot kicking at the men behind him.
An icy gust of air rose from the open doors. Blackness. I cannot be locked in blackness. I cannot!
And finally he screamed. He couldn’t hold it back any longer. He screamed, the terrible cry begun before he was pushed forward, before he felt himself topple from the threshold, before he realized he was plunging down and down into the blackness, into the nothingness, that Tommy was falling with him, cursing them, threatening them, or so it seemed. It was quite impossible to know. His scream was echoing too loudly off the stone walls.
He’d struck the ground. The blackness was outside him and also within. Then the awakening to pain throughout his limbs. He lay among hard and jagged things, cutting things. Dear God! And when he sat upright, his hand fell on objects which crumbled and broke and gave off a dull ashen smell.
He squinted in the single shaft of light that fell down upon him, and looking upwards, he realized with horror that it came from the door through which he’d fallen, over the heads and shoulders of the figures who filled it in black silhouette.
“No, you can’t do it!” he screamed, scrambling forward in the darkness, and then, without compass points or touchstones of any kind, climbing to his feet.
He couldn’t see their darkened faces; he couldn’t make out even the shapes of their heads. He’d fallen many feet, many, perhaps thirty feet, even. He didn’t know.
“Stop it, you can’t keep us here, you can’t put us here!” he roared, raising his hands to them, imploring them. But the figures had stepped back out of the lighted opening, and with horror he heard a familiar sound. It was the hinges creaking as the light died, and the doors were closed.
“Tommy, Tommy, where are you?” he cried desperately. The echo frightened him. It was locked in with him. It had nowhere to go but up against him, against his ears. He reached out, patting the floor, touching these soft, broken, crumbling things, and suddenly he felt something wet and warm!
“Tommy!” he cried with relief. He could feel Tommy’s lips, his nose, his eyes. “Tommy!”
Then, in a split second, longer in duration, perhaps, than all his life, he understood everything. Tommy was dead. He’d died in the fall. And they had not cared that he might. And they were never coming back for Marklin, never. Had the law, with its comforts and its sanctions, been a possibility, they would not have thrown either one of them from such a height. And now Tommy was dead. He was alone in this place, in the dark, beside his dead friend, clinging to him now, and the other things, the things round which his fingers curled, were bones.
“No, you can’t do it, you can’t countenance such a thing!” His voice rose again in a scream. “Let me out of here! Let me out!” Back came the echo, as if these cries were streamers rising and then tumbling back down upon him. “Let me out!” His cries ceased to be words. His cries grew softer and more full of agony. And their terrible sound gave him a strange comfort. And he knew it was the last and only comfort he’d ever know.
He lay still, finally. Beside Tommy, fingers locked around Tommy’s arm. Perhaps Tommy wasn’t dead. Tommy would wake up, and they would search this place together. Perhaps that’s what they were supposed to do. There was a way out, and the others meant for him to find it; they meant him to walk through the valley of death to find it, but they didn’t mean to kill him, not his brothers and sisters in the Order, not Elvera, dear Elvera, and Harberson and Enzo, and his old teacher Clermont. No, they were incapable of such things!
At last he turned over and climbed to his knees, but when he tried to rise to his feet, his left ankle gave out from under him in a flash of pain.
“Well, I can crawl, damn it!” he whispered. “I can crawl!” He screamed the words. And crawl he did, pushing the bones away from him, the debris, the crumbled rock or bone or whatever it was. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about rats, either. Don’t think!