Gone

58

The kitbag clunked fitfully against the dripping canal wall, the sound echoing off the barge. In the bows Flea breathed shallowly, shaking uncontrollably. She peeled the T-shirt off her leg. It came slowly, parts of it sticking to the already drying blood. The wound had settled to a crusty red line. She gave it an experimental squeeze. It held. Quickly she unstuck the T-shirt and pulled it over her head, feeling the dried blood crack and flake. She peeled her immersion suit back up, zipped it carefully and slipped silently off the bench to crouch in the water at a place where she could see out of the hole.

The rope swayed and circled, casting long, ugly shadows. She dropped deeper into the water and began stealthily to move her hand through the muck. She was used to searching silt and water using touch alone – it was her profession: her fingers were trained for it even in the thick gloves. She found the broken Swiss Army knife quickly, wiped it on her T-shirt and opened it to the flathead screwdriver. She waded silently to the hole and stood with her back to the hull, her head tilted so she could see all the way up into the shaft.

Someone was on the grille. A man. She could see him from behind, his feet in brown hiking boots. Brown cargo trousers tucked inside. A black bumbag around his waist. He was gripping the plants that sprouted from the walls of the shaft to steady himself as he took a couple of steps nearer the edge of the grille and peered down into the tunnel. His back was to her, she couldn’t see his face, but from his posture he seemed dubious, as if he really wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing. After a moment or two pondering he sank to a sitting position and shuffled his feet to the edge of the grille. Gravity took over and he began to slide. He grabbed the chain and slowed his descent, so he could lower himself into the dirty water below.

He stood in the shadows, both arms out defensively, looking carefully around. Then he bent at the waist, straining to see into the darker recesses of the cavern. His head and shoulders came momentarily into the light and Flea let all the air out of her lungs at once. It was Prody.

‘Paul!’ She pushed her face into the hole, her breathing loud and shaky. ‘Paul – I’m here.’

He jerked in the direction of her voice, his hands flying up defensively. He took a step back and peered at the barge as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard.

‘Here. In the boat.’ She pushed her fingers through the hole and wiggled them. ‘Here.’

‘Shit. Flea?’

‘Here!’

‘Christ.’ He waded towards her, his boots and trousers getting soaked in the muck. ‘Jesus, Jesus.’ He stopped a foot away, blinking stupidly at her. ‘Jesus, look at you.’

‘Oh, fuck.’ She gave a shiver. A body-length shiver like a dog coming out of water. ‘I really thought I was stuck here. I thought you hadn’t got my message.’

‘Message? I didn’t. I lost my phone. I saw your car in the village and put it together with the way you . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Christ, Flea. Everyone’s shitting bricks over what’s happened to you. Inspector Caffery – everyone. And . . .’ He looked up and down the barge as if he still couldn’t quite believe she’d been stupid enough to get down here. ‘What the hell are you doing in there? How the fuck did you get in?’

‘From the stern. The barge goes back under the rockfall. I came through the tunnel on the other side. I can’t get out.’

‘Through the tunnel? Then, how come . . .’ Something seemed to occur to him. He turned slowly and looked back at the air shaft. ‘You didn’t drop that rope down the shaft?’

‘Paul, listen,’ she hissed. ‘This is it. This is where he brought her. He carried her across the fields. That’s his climbing kit, not mine.’

Prody pressed his back up to the barge as if he expected the jacker to come up behind him. He took a deep breath and let it out with a loud hoah. ‘Right. OK. Fair enough.’ He fumbled in the little traveller’s bumbag and pulled out a pen torch. ‘OK.’ He clicked it on and held it out in front of him as if it was a weapon. His breathing was fast.

‘It’s OK. He’s not here now.’

Prody swept the light around the darkest corners. ‘You sure? You haven’t heard anything?’

‘I’m sure. But look – over there in the water. The shoe. See it?’

Prody turned the torch on to it. He was silent for a long time, just the sound of his breathing coming through the hole. Then he pushed himself away and waded back through the water, stopping next to the shoe. He bent to study it. She couldn’t see his face but he was still for a long time. Then he straightened abruptly. Stayed for a moment, angled a little bit back at the waist, a fist planted on his chest as if he had indigestion.

‘What?’ she whispered. ‘What is it?’

He pulled a phone out of his pocket and jabbed the keyboard with his thumb. His face was ashen in the pale-blue glow of its screen. He shook the phone. Tilted it. Held it in the air. Waded to a point directly under the shaft and held the mobile aloft, squinting at the screen, hitting the call button with his thumb over and over. After a few minutes he gave up. He put the phone in his pocket and came back to the barge. ‘What network are you?’

‘Orange. You?’

‘Shit. Orange too. Pay-as-you-go at the moment.’ He took a step back, looked up and down the length of the barge. ‘We need to get you out of here.’

‘Hatch on the deck. I’ve tried, can’t budge it. Paul? What’s with the shoe?’

He put both hands on the gunwales and levered himself up, supporting himself on trembling arms, his body dangling against the hull. After a moment or two he let himself slither back into the water.

‘What’s with the shoe, Paul?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I’m not stupid.’

‘Let’s concentrate on getting you out. You’re not coming through the hatch. There’s a sodding great windlass on top of the deck.’

He walked along the side of the barge, his hand on the hull, stopping at places to examine it. She heard him hammer on it further down near the rockfall. When he came back there was a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. He was wet and muddy and, suddenly, looked terrible.

‘Listen.’ He didn’t meet her eyes. ‘Here’s what we do.’ He bit his lip and peered at the shaft. ‘I’m going to climb back up, get a signal.’

‘Was there one in the shaft?’

‘I . . . Yes. I mean, I think so.’

‘You don’t know for sure?’

‘I didn’t check,’ he admitted. ‘If there’s not one in the shaft there will be at the top.’

‘Yeah.’ She nodded. ‘Course there will.’

‘Hey.’ He bent at the waist so his face was level with the hole and he could hold her eyes. ‘You can trust me on this. I’m not going to leave you alone. He won’t be back – he knows we’ve been searching the tunnel and he’d be crazy to come here. I’m only going to be at the top.’

‘What if you have to leave the entrance to get a signal?’

‘Then it won’t be far.’ He paused. Stared at her. ‘You look pale.’

‘Yeah.’ She hunched her shoulders and gave an exaggerated shiver. ‘I’m . . . you know. It’s fucking freezing. That’s all.’

‘Here.’ He rummaged in the bumbag. Pulled out a squashed sandwich in cellophane and a half-full bottle of Evian. ‘My lunch. Sorry – bit manky.’

She pushed her hand through the hole and took the sandwich. The bottle of water. Tucked them in the rucksack hanging under the deck. ‘No whisky in there, I s’pose?’

‘Just eat it.’

He was halfway across the canal when something stopped him. He looked back to her. There was a pause. Then, without a word, he waded back and put his hand through the hole. She looked at it for a moment – his warm white fingers against the blackened inside of the hull – then lifted her own hand and rested it in his. Neither said anything. Then Prody pulled his hand away and waded back to the chain. He paused for a moment, to scan the tunnel one last time – the nameless bumps and mounds in the water – then hauled the rope away from the wall and began to climb.