The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(114)
His situation did not look very promising. But the worst thing was that there was no sign of Doyle. Murray had seen him fall like a lead weight, a stunned look on his otherwise stern face. He wondered whether he had been swallowed by the hole, vanishing into the voracious inferno, but something inside him refused to accept that the father of Sherlock Holmes could have met with such a fate. Perhaps he had also managed to cling on to something. Murray leaned tentatively over the hole, but at that precise moment a huge tongue of fire shot up from the floor below, forcing him to recoil from the edge. He resolved not to attempt that again.
“Arthur!” he shouted, between splutters. “Arthur!”
He continued calling Doyle’s name until he felt he was going to choke. He rummaged around in his jacket pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and covered his mouth and nose as waves of dizziness and nausea threatened to overcome him. His throat was gripped with convulsive sobs. Surely it wasn’t possible. He couldn’t be dead . . . Mustering the last of his strength, he called out Doyle’s name one last time, feeling his scorched lungs beginning to fail. But no one replied. All he could hear was the fire’s insatiable roar, that voracious, wild clamor, that ghastly, interminable crackle, as if a monstrous creature were chewing up the whole planet. All of a sudden, a familiar chuckle rang out a few yards from where he was on the ledge, between him and the stairs.
“So, your friend is dead . . . ,” the voice said, oozing a jubilant rage. “Then it’s just you and me. And you can’t see me . . . Now who is the hunter and who the hunted?” Murray heard the deranged laugh again, and it occurred to him that if he went on hearing it much longer, he would be infected by its madness. “I am Invisible Death, you fool! I warned you: you are all going to die . . .”
“Damn you!” Murray shouted, aiming his crossbow toward where the laughter was coming from, though without daring to fire it, for he knew if he missed he would not have time to reload.
The laughter fell silent as unexpectedly as it had burst out. Murray hesitated, pointing the crossbow nervously in every direction. He listened, trying not to cough, blinking furiously as tears streamed down his cheeks only to dry almost instantly with a faint hiss. He couldn’t tell whether the invisible man was standing or crouching, whether he had moved away or, on the contrary, had drawn closer, so close that he could reach out and touch him. Nor was there any way of knowing whether he was still bleeding, as the floor was now stained with his own blood and covered in soot and ash, making it impossible to perceive any trail. It occurred to Murray that he could aim at where the creature’s legs ought to be, but what if the creature was on the other side of the banister, the hallway side, possibly edging his way silently toward him, slotting his invisible feet between the bars? Then all he would have to do when he reached him was to push him into the hole, still clutching his stupid crossbow. Murray hurriedly slipped one of his feet between the banister bars and began sweeping the air furiously with his weapon, realizing that it was only a question of time before the dreadful push came. Any moment now his feet would slip from the floor, he would feel a sudden hollow in the pit of his stomach, and his body would plunge straight into the flames. But he did not want to die, he told himself angrily, not now that he knew Emma was alive in some parallel world and all he had to do was to find a way of reaching her.
“Where are you, you coward?” he swore at the creature, waving the crossbow in the air. “Go on, keep talking! Let me hear your loathsome voice!”
Murray peered carefully around him but was unable to see anything. If, as Wells described in his novel, the smoke the creature inhaled was revealing his breathing apparatus somewhere, it would be indistinguishable from the thick fumes obscuring everything. So, what could betray his whereabouts? Certainly not the soot and ash settling on his skin: that swine could be covered from head to toe in them and he would be just another shadow in the gallery, among the thousands created by the flames. To be visible, he must be covered with something reflective, like water or snow . . . With a sudden flash of hope, Murray remembered the sacks of plaster stored in the first room along the corridor. Yes, that was what he needed. If he could only get to them . . . But, alas, they were beyond his reach, because the moment he made a move, lowering his guard, the push would come that would send him plunging into the void.
Then something very peculiar occurred. A word formed in his mind, or rather intruded into his thoughts, as if it had come from somewhere outside his own consciousness: Reichenbach.
Murray’s body tensed. He fixed his gaze on the corridor beyond the flaming pit, where, after few seconds, he made out an indistinct figure charging toward him with what appeared to be a bulky object on its shoulders. Murray’s jaw dropped in astonishment.
For a few seconds he couldn’t think who it might be, but when the figure reached the edge of the hole, with a mixture of astonishment and joy, he recognized Doyle. Doyle spun round several times, lifting the object from his shoulders like a hammer thrower and hurling it aloft with a great roar. Murray realized then that it was a sack of plaster. Before Murray had completely understood Doyle’s intentions, he raised the crossbow and fired at the sack. And as Doyle teetered on the edge of the precipice, flailing his arms comically in a frantic attempt to regain his balance, Murray’s arrow shot clean through the sack of plaster and a silent white explosion spread out in all directions. Doyle toppled over but at the last minute managed to cling on to the edge of the hole with both hands.