Джон Пристли - Benighted

Morgan had charged like a bull and was upon him. He had just time to raise his arms and tighten his body when the man's whole weight was flung upon him and he found his arms gripped by those huge hands. All was lost. Instinctively, however, he immediately twisted his arms so that his hands clutched at Morgan's coat sleeves, then he held on tightly, his arms rigid, and instead of trying to withstand the charging weight of his opponent, slackened his whole body. The result was that he did not go down but was rushed backward, past Margaret and down the landing, just as if Morgan were carrying him. It was a dreadful sensation, this of flying helplessly backward, but he contrived to keep his wits. So long as he was not actually borne down, with Morgan's weight upon him, so long as one of those hands had not found its way to his throat, it might be still possible to master this brute, who seemed as gigantic but as brainless as a prehistoric monster.

He had found his feet again. This was the moment. He relaxed his grip for a second, brought his arms down and then threw them upward and outward with all his strength. Morgan was not quick enough to retain his grip and Philip was free to throw himself backward. He went further than he intended, crashing against the wall, because as he moved a blind swing of Morgan's clenched hand, as big as a mallet, caught him on the side of the head, nearly turning him sick. But the light was very dim here and Morgan's own bulk now blotted out most of it. He didn't seem to know exactly where Philip was, and when he charged again, he moved straight forward. Philip threw out a leg and, as Morgan went flying over it, summoned all the strength left to him and aimed a savage swinging blow at the man's body, a blow that landed somewhere in the ribs and completed his destruction. There was a great thud and with it the sharper crash of broken glass. Morgan was there, measuring his length on the ground, and in his fall he had smashed the lamp that Philip had put down not so many minutes before. That was the end of the lamp then; and the end too, he hoped, for a time of Morgan, now a dark unstirring shape.

Philip leaned against the wall, triumphant but dizzy and sick. For a moment he did not move, but then tried a few faltering steps towards the light. His head ached and this narrow place couldn't contain the loud beating of his heart. Once more he leaned against the wall, and now he closed his eyes, desiring nothing but to be a breath in the darkness. But the light, coming nearer, forced his eyes open again. It was Margaret. Her arm was about his neck, her cheek pressed against his, and there came back to him, bringing a multitude of flashing little images from a life long lost, the scent of her hair. "It's me, Phil," she was saying. He remembered that, too. It had come back with the rest, across a desert.

Her fingers were moving gently across his face. "Are you hurt?"

He opened his eyes very wide now and shook his head. "No, at least nothing much. Just one bang. I was very lucky though." He smiled at her and then looked down at Morgan, who was still lying there, motionless.

She followed his glance. "He's not – not dead, is he?"

He took the candle from her. "No fear. Probably hardly stunned. He went down with a fearful whack, but he's obviously a tough subject and there's probably nothing wrong with him. Let's have a look at him." He held the light above the outstretched Morgan, who was stirring a little now and breathing heavily, and Margaret came peeping over his shoulder. "He's only knocked himself out," Philip told her. "He'll be conscious again in a minute unless he happens to fall asleep; and it's more than likely that he will fall asleep, because he's very drunk."

Margaret raised her eyes dubiously to his. "Suppose he – begins again?"

"He won"t. Don't worry about that." Philip took her arm and began moving away. "When he comes to his senses he won't remember anything, and he probably won't be fit for much, anyhow."

Margaret tightened her arm against his fingers. "I can't imagine how you did it, Phil."

He laughed. "That's obviously the right remark and just the right tone of voice, my dear. You caught the note of pride. Well, I can't help feeling rather like Jack-the-Giant-Killer. And, as a matter of fact, I can't imagine how I did it either."

They were walking slowly back along the landing now. Suddenly Margaret stopped. "Listen, Phil. You see that room there, the door where I was standing?"

"Yes." What was this? The dark house closed round him again.

"There's someone in there, a man I think. When I was standing there I heard him call out, in a tiny weak voice."

"Femm's in one of those rooms," he told her. "He left me and carefully locked himself in. But it's the one behind, not this one." His mind was back on the landing above now, before that other door; it seemed a place in a nightmare. Should he tell Margaret about it? No; at least not yet.

"I distinctly heard somebody. He seemed to want something. It must be that other one."

"What other one?" He had forgotten who was here, feeling lost for the moment in a maze of dream-like corridors that offered nothing but mysterious doors and voices crying in the dark.

"The oldest, the one they called the master of the house, Sir Roderick," Margaret whispered. "Don't you remember, they said he was very old and ill? I'm sure he wanted something. And think of him lying there, hearing all that noise, quite helpless perhaps."

Yes, this must be old Sir Roderick, whose house had given them shelter. And what a house, what shelter! He looked at Margaret doubtfully, and then at the door itself. They were standing in front of it now, and its rubbed panels shone a little in the candle-light.

"Listen!" And Margaret's hand went up as she leaned forward, her white shoulder curving through the blue silk where her dress had been torn, her head a medallion of bright gold. His heart went out to her as he listened. She turned her head, her eyes seeking his. "Did you hear that?" she whispered.

He nodded, then raised his brows in an unspoken question. There had come to them, as if from across a great space, the sound of a voice calling within, the tiny weak voice that Margaret had described. He read her decision in her face, and felt no surprise when he saw her hand creep forward to the door and tap-tap upon it gently. Her other hand sought his arm and rested there.

"Come in." Their ears caught it as their eyes might have picked out a point of light on a midnight sea.

Margaret hesitated, and Philip felt her hand squeezing his arm. He put the candle into her other hand, leaned forward and slowly opened the door. His shadow went wobbling into the room, he went after it, and Margaret followed him.