She had to hide.
Stealthily, she inched up the passage, sidling into the darkness, turning off her own headtorch as she went.
The blackness absorbed her at once: an intense and devouring darkness. And Jessica hated the dark. The fear of what she had to do, where she had to go crawl into the huaca, towards the tombs, in the terrible darkness would have been insurmountable if the alternative hadnt been worse: a callous death in the dust outside.
But the blackness was hateful. It grasped at her: it took the air from her mouth. Putting one palm in front of the other, patting her way along, Jessica negotiated the zigzagging passageway, crawling like a blind mammal in the darkness. Like a human mole.
Here the passage turned, she turned with it, smelling the warm earth all around her, scraping her hard hat on the mud ceiling, knocking her knees against pebbles and rocks. Or maybe these were bones, not rocks. The huaca was riddled with tombs and corpses.
Breathing quickly in the warm, humid, constricted air, Jessica looked back. The darkness extended as far behind her as in front of her. The blackness was so intense it felt viscous, as if she was drowning in a sump of crude oil.
What was that?
Maybe a noise, a whispered voice carried along the passage. She heard voices. They must have made their decision, and now they were coming after her in the dark, following the same confusing and circuitous passageways, hunting her down.
Urgently she continued her eyeless crawl, chafing soil from the ceiling with her hard hat, soil that fell in hissy little whispers on to her body; one especially vigorous mudfall made her stop, and wait, tense, until the drizzle of soil concluded. Then she pushed on, into the black heart of the tombs.
Shed made it to the antechamber of Tomb 1. She could tell because she was kneeling on bones. Under her hands and her knees were the disarticulated skeletons of the servants, with their willing amputations. And now she had to crawl straight through them straight through the middle of the skeletal remains so that she could get to the senior tomb.
The bones crumbled under her scrabbling sneakers. She couldnt see the skulls, she couldnt see anything, but she could sense their sad, immortal grins. Jessica kicked the last metre and climbed the low mud shelf and as she did she heard the voices, very near.
They really were coming after her. And they were very close behind.
She had to hide, quickly, somewhere in the tomb. Racing on her scratched and bleeding knees Jessica forced herself through the stone portals. At once she tripped on the square-metre strings that gridded the floor; with a loud crack she fell into the piles of corpse beetles, the trashy, gaudy crunch of thoraxes. She had fallen face first into the pile and now they were in her mouth: she was eating the beetles who ate human corpses; it was disgusting.
Spitting the vileness from her mouth, Jessica moved on, slithering through the crackling insect shells, and then at last she half-stood, and ran and threw herself blindly at the wall.
A light.
The torch beam of her pursuers was now visible in the antechamber beyond: a dim and troglodytic light, sinister and subterranean. And coming her way. Fevered with desperation and terror, Jessica groped her way to the corner of the room where the secret entrance to the second antechamber was concealed.
The passage was virtually a hole in the ground, hidden behind a mud wall. Would the killers see it? This was her only chance. Jessica squeezed herself into the tight and grimy final passage. It was so narrow it seemed to her that she was now being swallowed by the mud, swallowed by the Moche pyramid, eaten up by their unknown gods.
A minute later she was in the antechamber. She could sense the higher space around her, even if she could not see it. And she could stand up. She could also sense the little skeletons of the children, sleeping in their kindergarten, their hearts removed.
A minute later she was in the antechamber. She could sense the higher space around her, even if she could not see it. And she could stand up. She could also sense the little skeletons of the children, sleeping in their kindergarten, their hearts removed.
There was nothing Jess could do now but wait. She squatted in the far darkness of the chamber, her eyes closed to the terror; but the terror was the same with her eyes open or shut. She wiped the mud from her blinded eyes and just stared into the blackness.
Subdued murmurs, echoing down the long huaca passages. The word ulluchu they were talking about ulluchu, and the way they said it was strange, not quite right, spoken in a different accent. Not Peruvian? The pronunciation chimed in Jessicas mind. But she didnt know why, and she didnt care, because now the voices were dwindling, they werent getting any nearer, they seemed to be moving away.
Time passed. With no sign of the killers. Maybe she was going to make it?
But then despair grasped at her, in the darkness. Even if she did survive, what was the point? If she lived longer, that maybe just meant she would die soon, but more slowly. From Huntingtons. And that would be worse. Much, much worse.
Maybe it would be better if she was shot now: simple and painless.
Yet even as she thought this, her soul stirred with rebellion. Clinging to life.
Jessica stared into the blackness, where the Muchika children lay sleeping. Devoid of visual stimuli, her mind conjured up pictures of its own: she was seeing her father again. Thrashing in his bed, angry, then crying, then angry, then very silent again: the longest silence of all. And now Jessica could see herself in the hospice: she was a child, looking at the body on the bed, looking at the body where her father had been, and she was wondering where he had gone.
Jessica remembered her own reactions. Staring at the dead body, outraged, tearful, and wondering where the life had gone. Her mothers soothing stories of Jesus and angels and heaven had not consoled her. With a seven-year-olds basic sense of morality, she felt shed been robbed. Someone or something had stolen her father away, and he would surely be returned.
But he never returned.
There. Now.
A voice. In the tomb.
She returned to alertness with a startle and suppressed a cry of fear.
The voices were getting louder. They were coming down the passageway into the hidden antechamber.
So this was it. Theyd found the concealed passage. Death had not relinquished her, after all.
The killers emerged into the chamber; they had dazzling headtorches. They were tall silhouettes flashing beams of light right into her eyes. She held up her hands in supplication, visoring her eyes in the glare. But she could see one thing well enough: the men had raised their guns, and they were pointed her way.
35
Clapham Common, London
The carol singers were gathered under the bare-boned plane trees, by Holy Trinity Church, warbling of merriment and figgy pudding. The hardiest joggers sprinted past, white earphones in place, oblivious and sweating despite the chill.
Nina sat between Adam and Jason, on the cold park bench. She pulled the sleeves of her blue jumper over her small white hands. Poor bastard. She shook her head. And he had kids, didnt he? A baby?
Adam nodded. Fighting off the fear and despair. This was the first time he and Nina had really discussed what the detective had told him: that Ibsen had returned to his car to find DS Larkham dead. Garrotted, while he sat in his car; his face contorted into a smile.
And there was a note, right? Jason said.
Yes. One of ours, one of yours. Thats what it said, thats all it said.
Nina interrupted, So they must have been looking for us, failed, but found the poor cop. But were next.
Adam quickly replied. We dont know that. Though he knew it to be true. Ibsen had said as much to him, sounding shaken.
Jason sighed. Adams best friend had been back from a hard assignment in Spain for just a few hours, and the tiredness showed in his face. Now Adam felt a deep shiver of guilt, dragging his old friend into all this terror.
So what the hell do we do now? Nina asked.
Adam looked into her eyes, seeking her real feelings. Ever since the discovery of Larkhams death, she had appeared to strengthen, paradoxically. The sobbing had stopped, the rheumed eyes had disappeared. She had slept. Probably, Adam guessed, she was faking the strength, but the fakery was good, and necessary. He answered as best he could. Ibsen suggested we could go into protective custody.
You mean put us under bloody house arrest? Yeah, great.
Jason gestured at the police car parked at the edge of the Common. Two officers sat patiently inside: their protection. A pair of officers didnt seem quite so impressive, not any more.
Youre already pretty restricted. But living with the cops in some dismal safe house, that could be even worse.
Exactly. Its pish. Im not doing it! Her voice was decisive. Who knows when wed ever emerge? These guys, the Camorra, are famously patient: they will wait years if necessary, didnt you say that, Jason?
Jason agreed. I did a story once on them once, they will cross the world to take out enemies and rivals.
Well theyre not doing it to me. Nina swore. My sister is already dead. My dad is dead. Theyve killed two-thirds of my family. I dont care any fucking more. Im not hiding in some stupid hole. Her voice was impassioned, maybe a little broken, but it was undefeated. Im not going to hide for the rest of my life.
Adam stared at her: she was like Alicia, yet she was also much, much stronger. What do you suggest we do, then?
We get moving. We find the answer.
We continue searching? The trail your father laid?
Of course.
But they will just hunt us across Europe. Adam gazed at the police car, dwarfed by daunting London traffic.
Jason interrupted. You could set a decoy? Pretend that youre still in Britain, get a mate in the press to leak a story saying youve been taken into protective custody. That would buy you some time.
Yes, Nina said. Her eyes were fiercely bright. Yes. Adam? Yes? Would Ibsen buy that?
I dont know. I guess. Quite possibly. Yes The idea began to quicken in Adams mind. Fight back: do something. Stop the terrible waiting. It was tempting, but there was a problem. But what about you, Jason, what would you do? They might-