S. Parris - Treachery

‘Are we in danger?’ she asks, crouching alongside me and grabbing at a rock.

I glance sideways at the water coursing through the cleft in the tunnel wall. ‘Until we get out, we cannot assume ourselves safe. Help me here.’

We work in silence until we have cleared a gap large enough to crawl over. The candle gutters out as she tries to pass it through to me on the other side and it takes some time to spark the tinder-box into life again. The tunnel is pitched into blackness and I have the uneasy sensation that I can hear someone breathing close by. I reach up to help Nell through the gap; she hauls herself down, slipping on loose rocks, wincing as she turns her ankle upon landing beside me, but without complaint. She stands unsteadily, resting a hand on my shoulder, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and I see that she is weak. Her treatment at the hands of Jenkes and Doughty has injured her, perhaps more than I can see, and though she pushes on valiantly, I realise she is in pain. I can only hope she will be strong enough to reach the end of the tunnel — though I have no idea where the end of the tunnel might be, or what awaits us there.

‘Lean on me if you are tired,’ I instruct her. ‘I must keep my hand around the candle flame or we will lose it.’ But the candle is burning down fast; we will lose it soon in any case. I have to keep shifting it from hand to hand as the hot wax drips on to my fingers. I have lost all sense of time; it seems as if we have been down here for days. ‘I feel like Orpheus,’ I say, taking a step forward as the light flickers and dims.

‘Don’t look back, then,’ she says, with a small laugh, ‘or I shall be left down here for ever.’

The tunnel roof is lower now; we have to stoop to continue, making progress all the harder.

‘He was lying, you know,’ she says, out of the darkness behind me. ‘The man called Doughty. He did not violate me. He wanted to taunt you.’

‘It would be no dishonour on your part if he did, my lady,’ I say, keeping my eyes fixed on the candle. I wonder if she feels obliged to deny it for my benefit, in case I should consider her compromised.

‘But it is true,’ she insists. ‘He would have, but the other one stopped him. The man with no ears. They argued about it — No-Ears said it would be a sinful act that would taint them both. And yet he would have been quite happy to kill us.’

‘Rowland Jenkes has his own moral code,’ I say. ‘Sins of the flesh bring no glory to God. I think he prides himself on his asceticism.’

‘You called me “my lady” again,’ she says softly.

‘I’m sorry. It is a hard habit to break for a man of my birth.’

‘Are we going to die, Bruno?’ she asks suddenly, as if reading my thoughts.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Some day. But not down here, if I can help it.’ On impulse, I turn, cup her bruised face in my hand and press my mouth to her scorched lips, because I have just realised that the tunnel has begun to slope unmistakably upwards.

The tunnel ends abruptly, emerging into a round shaft lined with brick that appears to be a dry well, the bottom covered with a mulch of dead leaves. The candle is burned down to a stub, but in its faint glow I can make out iron treads hammered into the wall at ascending intervals, just as there were in the shaft we climbed down. The air smells less dank here, but when I crane my neck upwards, I see only darkness. I reason that it must be the middle of the night, but even so, you would expect some glimmer of natural light at the entrance. As I consider this, my heart lurches so violently that I stagger and have to hold myself up against the slimy wall: perhaps Jenkes and Doughty have sealed the entrance to this end of the tunnel, as a last bitter joke on us? I do not know where the tunnel emerges — whether near the city, where we might hope to be heard, or in some remote spot along the coast, where no one sets foot except those smuggling in contraband. There is nothing for it but to try.

‘Can you climb?’ I ask. She raises her eyes to the blackness above us.

‘I don’t think I have a choice,’ she says, forcing a smile.

‘Good. Wait until I call you, though — no point wasting your energy if we can’t get out at the top.’

‘What?’ Her face twists with alarm and she clutches at my sleeve. ‘I can’t go back, Bruno. I don’t have the strength. I would rather just …’ Her eyes fill with tears; her resolve visibly drains from her face as she slumps against me. I wish I could take the words back.

‘We will find a way,’ I say, squeezing her arm. ‘Come — hold this while I climb.’ I hand her the last of the candle. She shivers, flinching as the hot wax touches her skin. I place my foot on the first of the iron rungs and begin to pull myself up, dread sitting heavy in my stomach.

The shaft must be at least a hundred feet deep, perhaps more. Shadows close around me as I climb, until the candle is no more than a pinprick of light far below. As I make my slow way upwards, I recall what Jenkes had said about giving me the chance to repent. Another man might start praying now, indeed would have been praying fervently to every saint he could name for the past few hours, but I find I cannot, even in what may well be the hour of my death. Ironic, that for thirteen years of my life I spent most of my waking hours in prayer, only to find that prayer eludes me when I truly need it. Experience has taught me that the only one I can depend on to save me is myself.

At the top of the shaft my fingers brush against a rough surface; holding tight with my left hand, I extend my right and tentatively feel the shape of a wooden cover. I flatten my palm against it and push. It does not budge. As I am straining against its resistance, the iron staple under my left hand slips. I cry out as my knuckles scrape hard over the brick; one side has come loose in its fittings, but for now it holds. If it should come away altogether, I will fall back into the darkness. Gripping it hard, I gather all my remaining strength and heave my shoulder against the wooden cover. With a groan, it moves and through the crack I taste a breath of fresh, salt air. I brace myself, push again and climb another step as I do so, lifting the heavy cover with me until I can move it far enough to one side to grasp the stone lip of the well and pull myself up through the opening.

I collapse sprawling on to a dry dirt floor, sucking in great gasping lungfuls of air, cold and sharp as a blade to my raw throat. I lean over the rim of the well and call down into the darkness to Nell that it is safe for her to climb, though all I hear is my own voice spiralling down into the hole and the patter of a few loose stones I knock over the edge. There is no longer any sign of light from the candle.

While I wait for her to appear, I try to ascertain some sense of my surroundings. As my eyes adjust, I can see that some kind of shelter has been built over the mouth of the well, simple but substantial, with stone walls on three sides, the fourth open to the elements. I struggle to my feet and stand fully upright for the first time since I was tied up, stretching out my aching limbs and back. At the open side of the shelter, I venture to poke my head outside, conscious that Jenkes and Doughty may yet be waiting for us. My hand moves instinctively to my belt, only to find my knife gone. I curse under my breath; I have only my fists and my feet now to defend myself, and I feel so weak I would like just to lie down inside the shelter and sleep for days.

Outside there is only silence — but it is a silence alive with the sounds of the night: a brisk wind soughing in the leaves, the groan of branches, the low rumble of the sea close by and, far off, the barking of dogs. Feeling bolder, I step out and look up into dense woodland. The moon is high overhead in a cloudless sky, a silver coin glimpsed through the trees. The pale light filtering through would be sufficient for us to make our way through the woods, if Nell is strong enough — though I have no idea which way we should go. Perhaps it would be better to rest in the shelter until dawn so that we can take our bearings — or would we be more vulnerable at first light? I rub my forehead; my brain is so fogged by pain and the bone-deep exhaustion that follows prolonged terror that I cannot make any useful decision. I listen again to the night around me and hear the pull and slap of waves; we have evidently come out close to the shore. I decide we should wait until morning so that we can see where we are, and make our way back to Plymouth as best we can.