Pandora(108)

Slowly he lifts a hand. It brushes against something. Paper? Is that leather? When he moves it further up his fingers hit something cold, solid. He blinks into black, runs his hand along it. A … shelf? He raises his hand again, feels what he thinks are the same objects, up and up. Yes, a shelf. Lots of them. Then what? In answer Edward’s hand hits ceiling. His heart hammers loud in his chest.

He raises his other hand, repeats the process. Reaches out behind him. The same.

The same.

Edward sniffs, smells the sharp tang of industry, the distinct scent of oil. He slowly moves his feet, hears the sound of heel against metal.

No. Not metal.

Iron.

My God.

He is in the safe.

The panic comes swift then and he screams out, again and again and again, and when he has exhausted himself he strains to listen, but there is only silence and that is just too much for him to comprehend. His pulse races, he breaks out into a cold sweat and Edward pushes his skull against the hard expanse of iron in front of him, tries to breathe but cannot, and he is gasping, gasping, gasping …





CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN





Dora’s boot splinters glass. She lifts her foot, sees the shards beneath it. Her heart begins to pound fitfully against her ribs.

Alert now Dora moves slowly, places one foot carefully in front of the other, takes great care not to make another sound. Her eyes narrow when she recognises Hezekiah’s grotesque iron fish stranded on the floor. She approaches it cautiously and catches herself on an admonishing laugh. It will not move. It will not attack her. But then she squints. Dora lowers herself, rests her weight on the balls of her feet.

Blood. That is blood on the sharp curve of its fin.

Dora swallows, stands up again. She turns toward the basement. Her eyes widen.

Beyond the shelves, it is as if something has pushed through the floor from underneath. The floorboards are splintered, some ripped from their nails completely. She goes to them. Boards snapped in two, jagged edges, many rotten. Dora looks at what is beneath and sees, oddly, only stone.

There is a noise from below. The basement doors are open, and a light glows eerily beyond.

Something, she knows, is terribly terribly wrong.

Dora forces herself to cross the length of the shop, forces herself to the basement door, forces herself to lay a hand on the balustrade. There is another sound, and this time Dora can make it out – earth rolling, the slam of metal against stone, and she braves the first step of the stairs.

The basement is flooded with light. With candles, Dora realises. In the middle of the basement floor the pithos stands regal, imposing as ever it did, but at its base are chunks of brick and mortar – some small, some large – and Dora jumps when another is flung into the room from somewhere beyond the stairs.

She begins her descent. She can hear him panting, can smell the putrid stench of his wound, and when she reaches the bottom of the steps all Dora can do is stare in dismay.

The basement floor is covered with debris. Lying on her side against the far wall is Lottie, her arms and legs bound with packing twine. When Lottie sees her she moans through the gag at her mouth, gestures wildly with her eyes for Dora to look behind her, and Dora turns.

‘Dear heaven, Uncle. What have you done?’

The wall behind him is a ruin, but still whole, and Hezekiah stands – barely upright on his ailing leg – in the middle of a large mound of rubble. Clasped in Hezekiah’s hands, his knuckles bloody, is a pickaxe. She smells something else on him now – gin, she thinks – and Dora realises he is covered with the stuff, that Hezekiah is dangerously drunk. He does not wear a wig, his skin is filthy, his shirt ripped and blackened. He drips with sweat, and when she meets his eyes she sees her uncle is looking at her with pure, unadulterated hatred.

‘So, you’ve come at last.’

His voice is a sickening wheeze.

‘Hezekiah,’ she says, and the sound of his name on her tongue seems to shock him.

He drags his leg, moves further into the light. His eyes are bloodshot, seem to carry within them the spirit of madness. With difficulty he lifts the pickaxe, points its butt at Dora’s face.

‘You dare talk to me like an equal?’ he spits. ‘You are worthless! Just like your bitch of a mother. Look what Helen has brought me to!’

The pickaxe swings; Dora stumbles back, holding up her hands in defence, and she realises she must mollify him, coax him sweet if she is to have the truth.

If she is to remain unharmed.

‘What did she do?’ she asks. ‘What did Helen do?’

‘Ah, Helen,’ he breathes.

Hezekiah blinks at her like a confused child and lowers the pickaxe. Its vicious point scrapes on the floor.

‘I met her first, you know. I introduced them!’ He cracks a bitter laugh. ‘I wanted to impress her. Showered her with gifts, I did. But she chose Elijah in the end and like the whore she was she opened her legs to him before they even reached the altar.’

The vitriol in his voice. Dora tries not to flinch at it.

‘That must have hurt.’

‘It did.’ He looks confused again. ‘It did. How could she do that to me? After everything I did for her?’

Dora swallows, prays for calm.

‘What did you do for her?’

Hezekiah’s expression turns wistful, and for the briefest of moments Dora sees the ghost of the man he might have been all those years before – young, carefree. Handsome, even.