The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(170)

And without waiting for a reply, he began running down the tunnel. We followed, our stomachs in knots. And as I raced through the London sewers, with so many conflicting emotions inside me I felt as if my soul had been turned inside out, I looked over my shoulder at the two lovers, still clasping each other in the middle of the tunnel, Clayton’s artificial hand in theirs, growing smaller with each step we took. Then, just as the gigantic shapes of the monsters appeared behind them, I saw the lovers join in a serene embrace, as though they had all the time in the world to kiss each other and nothing mattered except the other’s lips. And the touch of their lips made their hearts explode, producing a dazzling white light that spread through the tunnel, drowning it out.

I can think of no nobler way of illustrating Gilliam and Emma’s love for each other than through the image of that blinding, powerful light. Two years have passed since it burned itself onto my retinas forever, and I’m proud to say that, although they died that day in the sewers of London, tenderly embracing each other, their love lives on. I made sure of that by remembering it each day, and now that I myself am about to die, I have tried to immortalize it as best I can in these pages so that it lives on after me. My only regret is not being able to write like Byron or Wilde so that whoever reads this, if anyone does, will feel his hands burn in the same blaze that consumed those lovers’ hearts.

After the blast came a deafening crash, like a thunderclap. We were struck by a blast of hot air that almost knocked us over, and a moment later we watched with horror as around us great cracks appeared in the walls and ceiling of the tunnel. We ran as fast as our tired legs would carry us as the world came crashing down, helping one another as we dodged the rubble thundering down on us from the ceiling, with what, to our ringing ears, sounded like muffled thuds. Moments later, the tunnel filled with dust, and we could scarcely see where we were going, but amid shouts and splutters we managed to reach the tunnel into which our tributary led. With a rapid exchange of glances, we confirmed no one was injured. Shackleton, face covered in dust, tried to get his bearings, while the tunnel behind us began to implode.

“This way!” the captain yelled, stepping into another smaller passageway that led off from the main tunnel.

We could scarcely hear Shackleton but hurriedly piled in after him, stooping as we ran to avoid scraping our heads on the low ceiling. There was almost no light in the tunnel, and a good third of it was plunged into total darkness, so that we had to grope our way along, up to our knees in water. By that time I was so exhausted I was beyond caring; it no longer mattered to me where we were going or whether the Martians were chasing us or not. As my deafness began to subside, I could hear our tired, almost painful gasps resounding off the tunnel walls. I was overwhelmed by fatigue and dizziness, but most of all I felt crushed inside: I had realized that as a human being I was a fraud, that my soul was polluted by egotism and self-interest and nothing of any beauty could grow there. Everything that came naturally and spontaneously to others required an intellectual effort on my part, and in most instances some form of future compensation or personal pleasure. These were the thoughts that assailed me as I waded through the tunnel, panting for breath, finding each step increasingly difficult. And suddenly, I couldn’t understand why, running began to seem miraculously easy, as if my feet had grown wings.

“The tunnel is sloping down!” I heard Wells cry behind me.

Then the gradient became so steep we found ourselves sliding down the narrow tunnel, dragged along by the water that was filling it. As I was being propelled toward God knew where, I heard the roar of water in the distance, growing louder and louder, and I quickly realized we were in one of the many pipes carrying the waste waters into the interceptor sewer, the vast tunnel beneath the streets that carried London’s sewage to somewhere in the Thames. I imagined the tunnel would end abruptly in a chute a few yards high, a kind of miniwaterfall flowing into the basin fed by all the other pipes. I had no idea whether the priest from outer space had been aware of these hazards, and, given the circumstances, had considered them the lesser of two evils, but the fact was we were in grave danger, for I didn’t think we would emerge unscathed from the imminent plunge. I positioned myself as best I could in the water and discovered Jane, terrified and pale, descending almost level with me, and a few yards behind us Wells frantically reaching out his arm in a futile attempt to grab hold of her. Without thinking, I grabbed her, clutching her to me, hoping to protect her as much as possible from the fall. All at once, the tunnel came to an end, and I felt myself gliding through the air, clutching the young woman’s trembling body. It was an odd feeling, like floating in space. And it seemed the illusion would go on forever, until I felt my back hit something solid. The impact at that speed seemed to have cracked several of my ribs, winding me for a few seconds, but I managed not to let go of the girl.

When I had recovered from the shock, I realized I had crashed into the guardrail surrounding the huge basin where the pipes discharged the wastewaters. A few yards above me I saw the tunnel that had spat us out, dumping its foul cargo into the pool, and at least a dozen more doing the same. Emerging from the bottom of this pool, where London’s excrement converged, was an underwater pipe leading out of the sewers, creating a gigantic whirlpool in the middle of the basin. However, it was impossible for anyone to be able to hold their breath for the fifteen or twenty minutes I calculated it would take to swim through it. If this was the good priest’s plan, he had clearly overestimated our lung capacity. Next to me, Jane coughed. She was only half conscious, perhaps due to the fear that had overwhelmed her as we flew through the air, yet unscathed thanks to its having been my body that smashed into the guardrail. I noticed that Shackleton had fallen into the middle of the basin, but despite the huge whirlpool threatening to suck him down, he seemed unhurt and was swimming strongly toward the edge, where I could see an iron ladder embedded in the wall. I looked away from what I was certain would be Shackleton’s successful escape from the deadly vortex and searched for the others. A few yards from me, I saw Clayton, his legs wrapped around the guardrail, his one good hand clutching Wells, whose legs were thrashing in midair. I realized immediately that if Wells fell into the water, he would be too weak to swim away from the whirlpool and would be irretrievably dragged down.