Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

'Who would invent a thing like that?' he snarled, reverting to his furious, demented state in an instant. 'Are you saying my wife is a liar? Haven't you done enough already?'

'Look at me.'

He did, suddenly, but only briefly, obedient. His eyes were glassy, wide open. And dark, as they had been on the night of the Marchesa's séance.

'Cort, you've taken opium.'

'Of course I haven't.'

'She gives it to you. What did she give you to drink or eat?'

'You're lying. I can always tell when someone is lying. He was lying too,' he said, gesturing at the still immobile Macintyre. 'He said he was only trying to help. "Only trying to help. Only trying to help,"' he said in a high-pitched childish mimicry which bore no resemblance at all to the way Macintyre spoke.

'So you hit him.'

He nodded.

'And these explosives,' I continued, trying to keep his mind focused on the conversation, 'who set those up?'

'Macintyre did. He brought them over a few days ago. Once they're prepared, the rest is quite straightforward; I just added the rest of the boxes, the ones he didn't use. I don't need help. I can do this job on my own. Wait and see.'

'But Cort, you've used all of it. Far too much,' Drennan said in alarm. 'Listen, I know about explosives. There's enough there to blow up half of Venice.'

'No, no. Just enough to bring down that column. Look, I'll show you.'

His face cleared, and he smiled. And he leaned forward and lit the fuse, which began sputtering.

'Macintyre told me the fuse would last for about ninety seconds. Don't come any closer, mind. I can still set off the whole thing. I'll stay here to make sure it doesn't go out. Don't worry. I'll be quite safe. Macintyre will help.'

'I'm not going without Macintyre. And you,' Drennan said. I could hear that even he was now very worried.

'No.' Cort moved nearer to the explosives, the flame now perilously close.

'What's the point of you killing yourself? How can you look after her if you die as well?'

'I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. I know what I'm doing. Then I'll take care of Stone.'

I looked at Drennan. I didn't know what to do; I rather hoped he did. He'd been a soldier, hadn't he? I could see him looking carefully, his eyes darting from Cort to Macintyre, to the explosives. Back again. Measuring, calculating. And I could see that he was giving up. We were about four yards away; too far a distance to grab Cort and bring him to the ground before he saw what we were doing. He only had to move his hand a couple of inches.

'About a minute left, I would guess,' Cort said thoughtfully.

'Let us take Macintyre, just in case.'

'Oh, no. He has to supervise. He insisted on it. He said he wouldn't trust me to pull a cork out of a bottle.'

Drennan took hold of my arm. 'Come on,' he said quietly. 'We have to get out of here.'

'We can't. We have to do something.'

'What do you suggest?'

'Macintyre is going to die.'

'And so is Cort. And we will too unless you start moving.'

I wish I had been more heroic. I wish I could have seen an opportunity to dash forward and grab Cort's arm. I wish I could have thought of something to say to bring Cort to his senses, or at least distract him for a moment and give Drennan a chance. I wish many things now, and that is enough to indicate that I managed none of them. Drennan had to drag me out, not because of my determination to stay, but because I had frozen, could not move. He dragged me to the door – about thirty-five seconds left, then pushed me down the steps. Only when I fell on the slippery floor did I come alive again, and the panic swept over me. I got up, stumbled – I remember it all – and then ran into the darkness, heedless of where I was going. Just following the sound of Drennan's feet.

We got back to the boat, Drennan screaming at the man we had left behind. Twenty seconds. Fell into it so hard that it almost capsized, the American reaching out at the same time to pull the painter loose and push the boat away from the side. Fifteen seconds. Began to row furiously, seeing the light of the day outside come closer and closer. Ten seconds. Got halfway into the normality of the canal outside, the boats laden with fruit, clothes, wood. People calling to each other, some singing. Five seconds. Then we were clear, but still heading across the canal, Drennan shouting like some lunatic at the other boats, telling them to get out of the way, keep their heads down. Two seconds. And I looked back and up, and saw Cort standing by the window, the one I had once seen open as an old man had sung below it. He rested his elbow on the sill, his chin on his hand. He looked content.

There was a tremendous explosion, followed by another and another as other charges ignited around the column. Masonry and plaster and roof tiles began flying through the air and the inside of the building was suddenly lit up by a bright red and orange light. Something like a tidal wave swept outwards across the canal; our boat capsized, and so did many others which were on our side of the palazzo. Fruit and vegetables and washing and people were flung into the water, and when I rose gasping to the surface and looked back, I could see that the entire roof and upper storeys of the building had vanished, the thin walls had collapsed like paper, falling inwards with a deafening noise, a huge cloud of dust rising above the scene, pushed upwards by the blast.

Drennan and I managed to get to our boat, which had spun round so completely it was now the right way up again, half full of water but floating. Then the masonry, flung into the air by the explosion, began crashing down into the canal like some bombardment. Enormous fountains of water erupted randomly; one boat was sunk by a piece of what looked like a chimney; windows were smashed and brickwork stoved in. People were screaming, running, lying on the ground with their heads in their hands. Our oarsman had swum for the far side, and I saw him dragging himself out of the water, pale-faced but apparently unharmed. Then I looked around. The water was littered with debris and people thrown out of the boats; men and women alike were panicking and were being rescued; I grabbed a woman who was sinking and got her to hang on to the side of our boat. Drennan and I tried to push her into it, but she was too fat, her clothes too heavy with water, and she started screaming and hitting us instead, so we stopped and began pushing her to the side. A crowd was gathering by the edge of the canal, some were jumping in to assist, others were just looking, open-mouthed at the catastrophe before them.

We said nothing; we were too out of breath, too much in shock, to say a word, but our boat eventually drifted close to the far side of the canal, and Drennan started kicking with his feet to finish the job. I helped, then we pulled ourselves round until we were within reach of outstretched arms, waiting to pull us out, and drop us on the warm stone, where we lay, panting furiously from terror and exhaustion.

Drennan recovered much faster than I, standing up shakily, and accepting a thick blanket to wrap around his shoulders. I took longer but eventually stood, my legs shaking so much I almost sank back to the ground again.

At least it didn't look as though any passers-by had been hurt; they had been given a nasty shock and a soaking, that was the extent of it. But I knew there was no hope for the other two. Nothing could have survived that; anyone inside must surely have died.

Then Drennan touched my arm and pointed. A body was being dragged from the water, and people were shouting for assistance. It was Cort. He was mortally pale, and blood had soaked the sleeve of his black coat and matted his hair, but he seemed to be alive – at least those around him seemed to think so as they were shouting for a doctor to come as quickly as possible, laying him with touching gentleness on the ground, holding his hand.