Peter James: Not Dead Yet

For an instant he was aware of hands grabbing his right leg, sliding down it, and a deadweight that was pulling him down, with Gaia’s feet pushing down on his shoulders. He scrabbled desperately with his fingers to keep a grip on the floor, oblivious to the splinters ripping into his skin and under his nails, just concentrating in these few split seconds on stopping himself – and equally importantly, Gaia – plunging through the open hatch. His arms were being pulled out of their sockets.

He could feel the weight of her feet on his shoulders even more heavily now. She was pushing him down. He was going. His hands were stinging like hell and he was struggling to keep a grip. He was being pulled down by his right leg, his hands dragging across the wooden floorboards. He heard Whiteley screaming. The weight was pulling him further down, down, too much for him to hold back. Then he felt hands sliding down his ankle. Heard Whiteley screaming pitifully for help again. Then, suddenly, like a hooked fish that has freed itself from a line, he felt his right shoe come off, and the weight was instantly gone.

He kicked out, but was just kicking air. His feet dangling over the forty-foot drop, he was acutely aware that only his hands, which were still sliding agonizingly across the wood towards the rim of the hatch, were holding him. And Gaia’s weight on his shoulders was pushing him down. He kicked out, desperately trying to find something for his feet to grip on, in case by some miracle there was a ladder beneath him. Gaia’s feet kicked, wildly, stamping on him as she scrabbled for grip on his shoulders. Pushing him down further, his hands slipping, slipping, his feet flailing in the air.

His arms and shoulders were in agony. He tried desperately to pull himself up, but the more he pulled, the more Gaia pushed down with her full weight. His arms were starting to give way and he didn’t know how much longer he was going to be able to hold on.

Can’t fall. Can’t fall. Can’t fall . The words played in his brain like a mantra. Can’t fall. Can’t fall. Can’t fall.

He thought suddenly of Cleo. Of their unborn baby. Of all the new life that lay in front of him. He was not going to die. Not going to.

‘Gaia,’ he yelled. ‘You’re going to kill us both! Get off me, get on to the floor, there’s enough slack in the wire, trust me!’

His hands slipped further, agonizingly, across the boards.

Further.

She pushed even harder on his shoulders. She was clearly in total hysterical panic, beyond any ability to hear him.

He was going. He could not hold on any more. His fingertips were sliding over the raised edge of the rim.

Then, suddenly her weight lifted off him. It was gone completely. But he still could not hold his own body up; his fingers were slipping. Slipping. He did not have the physical strength in them, nor the grip, to hold on any more. Somehow, he had to haul himself back up through the hatch, but he couldn’t. His arms were spent. He didn’t have the energy. For an instant he thought, it would be easier to fall. Simpler. Just let go.

Then he saw Cleo’s face again. Saw the bump. Their baby. Their life.

But his fingers slipped further. His body hung from them like a lead deadweight. He felt his fingertips right on the edge. They were losing their grasp. His legs bicycling in the air below him in the hope, again, of finding something, miraculously, to save him.

Slipping.

Oh shit, no, no, no. This was crazy. This was not how it was going to end. He fought back, with every ounce of strength he had. But he slipped further.

Then, suddenly, an iron clamp closed around both his wrists.

The next instant he was hanging, swinging from his arms. Moments later he was being pulled, very slowly and very firmly, upwards. He smelled the sour breath of a heavy smoker, looked up, saw a nicotine-stained moustache and heard the voice of the security guard.

‘Don’t worry, sir,’ he wheezed, ‘I’ve got you!’

Moments later he felt a second pair of hands gripping him, securely, under the arms. Near by, he heard a woman sobbing hysterically.

Seconds later, Roy Grace’s feet touched the floor, safely away from the hatch. He barely noticed he was missing a shoe. His hands were raw and bleeding and he had splinters up inside his nails that hurt like hell, but he barely noticed that either at this moment. His sole concern was for Gaia.

She was kneeling, supported by a male and a female police officer who were gently working free the noose around her bleeding neck. She was sobbing and shaking.

‘Do you want to sit down, sir?’ the guard with the moustache asked.

The other held on to him with a steadying hand. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine – is Gaia all right?’ he called out. ‘Is she all right?’

The woman officer said, ‘Yes, she’s okay, she’s in shock. I’ve radioed for an ambulance.’

‘Shall we get an ambulance for you, too, sir?’ one of the guards asked.

Grace shook his head, still getting his breath back. Then he saw the state of his hands. ‘I think I need tweezers,’ he said distantly, staring at Gaia again, trying to make sense of these last few moments. He stared at the four-foot-wide rectangular hole where the trapdoor had dropped down.

‘You’ve a nasty gash on your face.’

He put a hand up and it came away covered in blood. ‘You came in good time, guys. Thank you – for – getting me out of there.’

‘I used to be a bit of a weightlifter in my army days, sir. You were nothing compared to the weights I used to do.’

‘Thanks a lot!’

‘Take it as a compliment, sir.’

Grace gave a wry smile, then crossed over to Gaia. Their eyes connected and for an instant, her sobbing ceased.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

Through her tear-stained face she managed a weak smile. ‘Yes, guess I’m just a little wired.’

Grace grinned. Moments later he heard footsteps, and Glenn Branson charged into the room, then stopped and stared, open mouthed at Grace, then Gaia, then Grace again. ‘What’s happened? You all right? Everyone all right? Chief?’

The helicopter clattered past overhead, making conversation momentarily impossible as the din of its engine and blades echoed around the bare walls and bare floor. ‘We’re okay,’ Grace said.

Branson looked around wildly. ‘Where’s Whiteley? They said he was up here.’

Grace dropped down on his knees and crawled towards the edge of the hatch.

‘Careful, sir!’ one of the guards said.

Grace carried on to the edge, and looked down. Then he backed away and turned to the DS. ‘He’s in the kitchen.’

‘Kitchen?’

‘What – what’s – like – who’s with him? What’s he doing there?’

‘I’ll tell you what he’s not doing – he’s not cooking dinner.’

Ignoring his bleeding face and increasingly painful hands, Grace hurried down the spiral stairs with Branson close behind. When they reached the bottom, they ran along the corridor, into the Banqueting Room, where there was a bizarre mix of men and women in elegant Regency clothing mingled with the film crew who were mostly in jeans, trainers and T-shirts.

Larry Brooker called out, ‘Detective Grace, can you tell us what’s-?’

Grace ignored him, pushing the door open and running into the first of the kitchen rooms. It was a small, bare space, with beige walls and brown linoleum on which stood a stainless steel trolley that reminded him of a mortuary gurney. He looked up, but there was no hatch above, just a low ceiling.

Followed by Branson he pushed open a sludge-coloured door and went into the next room, which was similar, but smaller. There was a faint smell of human excrement. He crossed over and opened another door, which was slightly ajar. Both men recoiled at the sight.