Iain Pears - The Raphael Affair

That done, he picked up his knife again. ‘Oh, Lord,’ thought Argyll. ‘Here we go.’ He exploded from his sitting position and cannoned into the man’s chest, knocking him off balance by sheer fluke. It used up all the reserves of energy and will-power he had. More, in fact. Men with knives can bring out the best in you.

But it was immediately obvious that his best wasn’t enough. His antagonist slipped over, but Argyll simply didn’t have the resources to do what was plainly required; that is, leap decisively up and down on his head with his heavy, metal-tipped shoes. Instead, he just stood there, still half hunched over with pain as his opponent rolled over, recovered his knife and began coming towards him again.

There was only one course left, and he took it. In the gloom, he could dimly make out that the infernal creature was between him and the door leading to the staircase down. So Argyll dashed through the other one and began to climb up. It was the best he could do to fulfil his promise to Flavia to protect her, even though she’d plainly been dismissive of his offer. With luck her assailant would follow him, giving Flavia a chance to regain consciousness and raise the alarm.

I hope he comes after me, anyway, he thought as he wheezed and puffed his way up the stairs. But what if he does something to Flavia first? Maybe I should have stayed down there.

It was a noble thought, and the fact that it was plainly impractical didn’t make him feel less awful. He would have been killed and Flavia would have followed soon after. Which may yet be the case anyway, Argyll reflected.

He ran blindly up the stairs in the pitch dark, half-tripping, missing steps, but going as fast as he could. It got harder and harder. Earlier in the afternoon even the climb up the hill had been enough to wind him; the way he felt now, the man behind wasn’t even going to have to bother sticking in a knife. It was what came of sitting in libraries when he should have been out jogging away and lifting weights. If he survived this, Argyll promised himself, he’d buy a rowing machine. The next time some tall, dark forger tried to knife him in a Sienese tower in the middle of the night, he’d be prepared for it. Up the stairs like the wind, he’d go.

His thoughts were getting confused from the combination of fright, pain and cramps. At one stage he stopped climbing. Doing so scared him to death, but he simply couldn’t go on. He listened over the whistling, rasping sound of his breath; the soft pad of footsteps was just audible. He evidently had a lead, and his pursuer didn’t seem to be hurrying. But then, why should he? — Argyll thought with a flash of despair — it’s not as if I can get away. Perhaps he’s as out of condition as I am?

The thought of his pursuer keeling over with a heart attack half-way up the stairs cheered him momentarily, but dissipated as he realised it was hardly likely. Whoever it was, the man with the hefty kick was not Sir Edward Byrnes — an elderly gent who, whatever the circumstances, would hardly go around kicking people in the stomach. He could just about see Byrnes knifing someone, but this sort of crawling around with wooden clubs and boots and knives didn’t really seem the man’s style.

Argyll began climbing the stairs again. He was going slowly, but making progress. The apparent inevitability of death doesn’t mean that you will do nothing to postpone it for as long as possible. He doggedly kept on going to the top. Had circumstances been different, he could have stared at the view from the parapet for a very long time: bent double over the wall, choking as he dragged air into his much abused and protesting lungs, he saw the whole of Siena laid out like something out of a fairy-tale. A crescent moon illuminated the Campo and the jumble of medieval buildings around it. It lit up the black and white marble stripes of the cathedral tower. Twinkling lights from dozens of windows showed where the town’s inhabitants were still up and about, watching the television, drinking wine, talking with friends. A light, warm and refreshing breeze. Beautiful, safe and normal.

But Argyll was in no mood to ponder over either the scenery or his unfortunate situation. I could shout, scream bloody murder from the rooftops, he thought. But he didn’t. No one would work out where it was coming from in time. And anyway, in the state he was in at the moment, he doubted that he could raise much more than a faint squeak.

He turned round at the creak of the door. The man was standing, quietly and still in the doorway, evidently evaluating how best to go about things. When Argyll had seen Flavia collapsing in a bloody heap, he had initially been furious, then desperation had sent him flying up the stairs. Now all these impulses had gone, and he was just frightened.

Knife me, push me over, or both, Argyll thought. Spoiled for choice. Probably push me over, he decided. More ambiguous.

An arm went round his neck, pushing him back so his head rested on the parapet wall. He saw the flash of the knife in the moonlight. He was choking. He grabbed the wrist below the knife, not that it made any evident difference. The planned resistance was useless; the unplanned response was much more effective: reflex action brought his knee up between the other’s legs so fast and so sharply that the impact hurt it. To Argyll’s faint astonishment, the grip relaxed as his attacker clutched at the offended area and let out a deep, and very satisfying yelp of pain.

But the respite was only brief. His assailant had kept hold of the knife and was still much too close. Argyll clenched his fist and hit him. He’d never hit anyone before, having led a quiet and largely withdrawn childhood in a world which disapproved of shows of temper among the young. He should have got into more fights when he was small. It was odd how small his fists felt, and how much his knuckles hurt when he punched the man in the general area of the chin. He made a few more desultory taps, then stopped. He could do no more and it didn’t seem to be much use in the long run anyway. His assailant, at least, also seemed less than happy after his brief contact with Argyll’s knee. They both paused, breathing heavily and looking at each other, eyes less than a foot apart. In the dim light, Argyll saw his face clearly for the first time, and was briefly shocked into inactivity.

Then the knife hand swung back for the last time, and Argyll reached into his pocket for his last weapon. A pity he hadn’t thought of it before. He aimed the aerosol, and pressed the button.

There was a scream of agony, the knife clattered to the stone flagging. Argyll was appalled. He hadn’t even considered what he’d been doing, just grabbed the one faint chance the moment it occurred to him. He backed away, and stood, dumbly, watching the torment he’d just caused.

One hand still trying to rub the acid out of his eyes, Argyll’s assailant was scrabbling in the pocket of a heavy blue jacket.

Oh, Christ, not a gun as well, Argyll thought. This man’s a walking bloody arsenal. It was no good even thinking of another round of fighting to try and disarm him. There was no strength left for that. With the certainty that only desperation can provide, Argyll ran forward once more and pushed with every drop of muscle-power and will-power he had left.

Without a scream, a cry, or any noise at all, Antonio Ferraro, deputy director of the Italian National Museum, disappeared over the edge and hurtled to the ground, three hundred feet below.

Argyll sat there for twenty minutes, maybe more. He was too exhausted and in too much pain to move. The adrenaline washed out of his system, leaving a barely functioning wreck behind it. It was very quiet, now. His back resting against the parapet wall, he looked upwards, beyond the tall bell tower that rose from the middle of the Campanile, and stared at the stars. It wasn’t really appropriate but he was far too washed out to do anything else. Flavia was, at the least, badly injured and might well be lying down there with her throat cut. He had, it seemed, just killed someone who would, knowing his current run of luck, turn out to be entirely innocent of any wrong-doing. All for that stupid, useless picture. The thought made him feel ill. It would have been better if he’d never heard of bloody Mantini.