December (15 page)

Eventually he pulled up at a gate. Zombie
Two eased off me and I sat up a bit. ‘Dundrum Oubliette,’ I read to myself. ‘Open June–October.’

Sligo climbed out of the car, stepping into the pouring rain. He dragged a pair of
heavy-duty
bolt cutters out of the boot, stalked over to the gate and cut right through the chains woven through them. I peered ahead, trying to see through the rain drumming on the windscreen. Some distance ahead, I could make out what looked like a half-fallen wall.

Sligo lumbered back into the driver’s seat and drove the car through the gateway and up to the stony structure.

‘Get him out,’ he ordered Zombie Two, cursing the rain as he lifted his heavy body out of the driver’s seat again. ‘Destroy his phone!’

Zombie Two hauled me out into the cold night air and patted me down. My phone was in my backpack that I’d chucked into one of the Carrick cots, so I didn’t have anything on me for them to destroy.

‘No phone,’ he yelled out.

Sligo shone a torch ahead of him while Zombie Two dragged me along after his boss, my arms twisted up behind my back. I was led down some stone steps and into what must have been a courtyard hundreds of years ago, but was now more like a flat, crumbling rock.
I noticed Sligo was also carrying a grappling hook on a chain.

What was an oubliette? I wondered, panic rising.

Maybe it was good that I didn’t know what I was in for …

In the middle of the courtyard was a round drain, covered by a heavy iron grille. Sligo knelt beside it. He put down his torch and wedged one of the barbs of the grappling hook under one of the bars on the grille.

His torch sat in a puddle, directing light onto a plaque that had been attached to the ground near the drain.

‘Hold on to the little scumbag while I get the cover off,’ Sligo yelled out to Zombie Two.

Zombie gripped me while Sligo went back to the car. With the other end of the chain attached to the front of the vehicle, Sligo jumped in behind the wheel and revved it up. He slammed the accelerator and the car reversed, ripping the cover off the drain opening. It rolled and landed a few metres away.

I struggled against Zombie Two, as horrifying images of the inside of the oil tank came back to me. Was Sligo going to shove me in a drain? Drown me in stormwater?

Sligo returned and scowled at me, an evil leer on his pudgy face. ‘As you can see from the sign, this is an oubliette,’ his voice boomed over the easing rain. ‘I trust you can read, but maybe if you listened better in school, you’d know that the French word “oubliette” means “place to forget”. You might also have learned that an oubliette is a medieval prison, made for those who had displeased the local noblemen. The offender was dropped into the hole and, well,
forgotten
! They were abandoned in these deep underground
dungeons
, sometimes knee deep in water, sewerage, rats … but this one has an extra attraction of another kind.’ Sligo paused and grinned. He turned to Zombie Two. ‘Drag him over so he can see.’

Zombie Two followed orders and pushed me towards the hole. It gaped like nothing but a black circle until Sligo shone his torch down.

I croaked in horror!

I was staring down into a seemingly
bottomless
pit, with a
huge
spike spearing up from the darkness. Its wicked point glinted in the torchlight.

‘You should thank me for it, really,’ mocked Sligo. ‘Being impaled on that spike, as
excruciatingly
unpleasant as I believe it will be, means a much quicker death than starvation. The
treacherous
bogs have already proven to be a great place for dumping a troublesome body, but this is far more gruesome, don’t you think?’ he said to Zombie Two.

Zombie Two bellowed with laughter.

‘Although it was fun,’ Sligo continued, ‘
watching
Rathbone struggle in the mud.’

‘You murdered Rathbone?’ I screeched.

‘Enough!’ he screeched back. ‘Throw him in!’

I shouted and screamed and struggled
uselessly
in Zombie Two’s iron grip. He began lifting me up and I kicked out as Sligo grabbed my other shoulder and upper arm. Together they were about to hurl me into the black hole! I would be speared like a piece of meat on a spit!

This couldn’t be happening—but it was!

I fought with all my strength, but slowly,
inevitably
, they hoisted me over the edge. I stretched my legs out wide, making it impossible for them to drop me into the narrow passage. Zombie Two saw what I was trying to do and he kicked my feet back together and into the hole—leaving me with nothing to keep me above the surface.

Then they let go.

Instinctively, as I fell, I swerved like a diver in a sideways twist, trying to curl my body around the spike.

I crashed down painfully, the flesh on my thighs and arms grazing right off as my clothes tore and I collided with the jagged, stony walls. I landed with a back-breaking thud.

I was hurt, but I’d avoided being impaled on the spike!

Stunned and winded, I looked up at the pale circle of night sky above me. The grille had already been returned to its original position—the straight lines of the bars drew shadows over my battered body.

I was trapped, bleeding and soaking wet, in the bottom of an oubliette, in the dead of winter, somewhere in Ireland.

As if to push my despair just that little bit further, a clap of thunder sounded, and the rain began pouring down again in buckets.

I tried to get to my feet but slipped in the pool of water. I wanted to scream out, but I stopped myself, thinking it would be better if Sligo and Zombie Two thought I was already dead.

The sound of Sligo’s car disappeared into the night and I was alone. Abandoned.
Forgotten
.

He’d killed Rathbone.

Was I about to die next?

I slumped against the wall and looked up, the rain relentlessly pelting down on my face.

There had to be a way out of here. Surely I could climb up the wall somehow. Maybe—if I could get up to the top and find a strong enough foothold—I could push the grille off.

The numbness wore off from my shaking limbs and I was aware of how uncomfortable I was, sitting on the stones or rocks or whatever it was that covered the ground of this hole. I struggled to sit up and twisted around to see what I was sitting on.

I jumped up in horror.

What had cushioned my fall were piles of dead leaves on top of old, broken bones! The bones of other prisoners who had lived and died down here, forgotten centuries ago!

Stay calm
, said a voice in my head.
Think, Cal, think
.

I tried to control my breathing and let my eyes adjust even more to the darkness. I shielded my face from the rain and looked around. I could see I was in a circular space, slightly wider than the opening many metres above, with sloping stone walls covered in thick, slippery moss.

Over the bones and the dust, I felt my way around the walls. They were wet and slimy and, worse, they were funnel shaped, so that the opening at the top part of the oubliette closed over me like the neck of a bottle. Climbing out looked seriously unlikely …

I moved my legs to check they were OK,
sloshing
them around in the water that was building up like a well. Next I checked my arms and remembered the distress beacon Boges had given me! My watch!

I squinted at it on my wrist, but could hardly see anything. I rubbed its face with my fingers and almost choked when I realised it was
completely
shattered—the glass had been crushed in my fall. The insides of the watch were destroyed and saturated.

The beacon was not going to save me.

With trembling fingers, I pressed the winder of the watch anyway.

Nothing happened. I stared at the watch-face. There was no sound. There was no pulsing, blue light.

Again and again I pressed on the tiny winder, until the whole watch fell away in pieces and all that was left on my wrist was the band.

Nobody knew I was here and the sign on the gate said that this place was closed until June. I was stuffed.

I grabbed at the slippery, moss-covered stone walls again, trying to find any possible hand grips. I made several attempts to climb the wall, but just fell crashing to the ground, drenching myself over and over again.

No matter how hard I tried, it was
impossible
—I wasn’t getting anywhere. My hands were scraped and cut from trying. The small
indentations
that I managed to hook my fingers onto crumbled away under my weight, weakened by constant water erosion.

After about two hours of useless clawing, I crouched in the damp darkness, exhausted. I made a pile out of the broken bones to sit on, above the rising water level.

It was freezing. I felt as cold as I was when Three-O locked me in that seafood shop freezer. I was on the verge of death then, and I was pretty sure I was on the verge of death now.

Sligo’s gloating words returned to me as I stared at the spike. Maybe he was right. Maybe it would have been better
not
to have avoided it.

30 DECEMBER

2 days to go …

I spent hours yelling out, begging someone to come and help me out of this death trap. I shouted until my voice was hoarse.

More hours passed and I tried to soak up the few weak rays of winter sun that made their way down to the bottom of the oubliette, trying to get my clothes dry after the intense rain of last night. The icy water had risen past my knees, and even though I was doing all I could to stay out of it, I just couldn’t get completely clear and dry. I was worried about what another sub-zero night down here would do to me—I didn’t think I could take it.

I shuddered as a faint beam of light shone on the bones of the others who’d perished here before me. I wondered if they had remained
hopeful
until the very end. Or if they had just given
up. I was in Ireland and so close to solving the Ormond Singularity, but every second I felt more and more convinced that this was it for me. I was going to die a horrible, slow, lonely death.

Could I make a rope out of my clothes? I
wondered
. If so, maybe I could wrap it around the spike and shinny up, closer to the grille. Maybe, once there, I could loop the rope around one of the bars and somehow haul myself up, kick the bars and swing out …

I had to give it a go. My hands were
shivering
as I slipped out of my T-shirt and singlet, pulled my tattered jumper and coat back on, and started ripping the material into strips.

When I guessed I had enough length of knotted fabric, I wrapped it around the spike and made a start on shinnying up. I grabbed the rope tightly in my hands, clamping my muddy wet sneakers around the spike, like some crazy climbing frog. My hands and feet slipped painfully down again, and I smacked my chin on the spike. My skin scraped off from the sharp flakes of rust under the slime, and I fell back, wincing in pain.

Over and over, I threw myself up the spike, trying to grab it and haul myself up. But over and over I found myself painfully slipping down
again until the palms of my hands were skinned raw and the fabric on the inside thighs of my jeans was torn and ragged.

It was no use. No way was I going to be able to get up this deadly giant needle.

I was freezing, bleeding, hungry and
exhausted
. I collapsed on top of the pile of bones and started trying to send telepathic thoughts out to Winter and Boges. I hoped they were OK and somewhere safe. It was like I was back at the cemetery, when they were searching for me, not knowing where to dig. I knew they’d be going out of their minds with worry.

Even if they sensed I was still alive,
somewhere
, the odds of them finding me were about a million to one.

Another night in the oubliette. I was faint and dizzy. My body was jolting with shock from the cold, and my teeth chattered constantly,
desperately
trying to shake me into some semblance of warmth. My hands were swollen and painful and I was having trouble thinking straight.

I thought of how this journey had begun with a drawing of an angel. The Ormond Angel was supposed to come to the aid of the heir in his time of need.

‘I need you now!’ I screeched into the air, willing him to swoop down and save me. ‘Where are you?!’

All I could hear was water dripping.

‘I’m the heir! Come and save me!’

Again, all I could hear was dripping.

‘There is no Ormond Angel,’ I muttered to myself.

Right at that moment I thought I saw
something
move in a fresh circle of light above me. I shook my head, convinced hallucinations were starting.

But then something moved again. The shadows over me definitely shifted.

I stared up. It seemed like a figure was
standing
on top of the grille.

Then I swore the figure bent down and peered into the hole. White light shone around the figure’s head like a halo, and what looked like a huge, folded wing peeked over its shoulder.

I blinked.
Was
I hallucinating? Had the stress and fear sent me completely round the bend?

The figure shimmered above me.

Was it the Angel? Just in time?

‘H-h-hello?’ I murmured.

I blinked as torchlight suddenly fell on my face.

‘Cal?’

A voice! A voice I knew!

‘Cal? You OK?’

Relief flooded my body.

‘Rafe,’ I wailed, like a baby. ‘Uncle Rafe!’

It wasn’t the Ormond Angel above me, but my uncle, Rafe. What I’d thought was a rounded wing was now revealed as a huge coil of rope, backlit by powerful lights—probably his car headlights.

‘Hang on, boy, I’m going to get you out of there,’ he said, moving the grille away with a crow bar. He lowered a rope with a loop at the end which I quickly fixed around my waist.

‘I’m r-r-ready!’ I called out, and immediately he used all his strength to haul me out of the dreaded oubliette.

Once he could reach me, Rafe grabbed onto my arms and pulled me all the way out and onto the ground. I lay there, numb and shivering, unable to move. He wrapped a blanket around me, picked me up and carried me to the car. He sat me upright in the passenger seat, slammed the door then ran around to the driver’s side, turning the ignition and cranking the heat, full blast.

‘Look at you,’ he said, leaning over and rubbing my hands. He passed me a bottle of water. ‘Lucky I found you when I did. Any serious injuries?’

I shook my head and sipped from the bottle. ‘Just c-c-cold,’ I stuttered. ‘H-h-how on earth,’ I said, barely able to control my words through my freezing lips, ‘did you find me?’

He took a deep breath, seeming unsure where to start.

‘It’s a long story,’ he began, turning all the air vents of the hired car in my direction. ‘As soon as we were notified that you’d been arrested after ramming the police station, back home, your mum and I rushed in to see you. But,’ he said, driving us away from the oubliette, ‘it wasn’t you we found there, was it?’

I shook my head gently, picturing Ryan Spencer, and smiled with dry, cracked lips.

‘I’d heard that the authorities believed you were a flight risk, so as soon as I realised an “impostor” had been arrested, and that the whole thing had been a set-up, I knew you’d flown the coop.’

‘So you saw Ryan?’ I asked, finally starting to recover my speech.

‘We sure did,’ he said with a wide grin and a sparkle in his eyes. ‘I never thought I’d see the day, Cal. I never thought we’d see Samuel again.’

‘And Mum?’

‘Your mum was extremely overwhelmed,’ he said, firmly.

‘In a good way, right?’

‘Certainly, Cal,’ he said hesitantly. ‘This year has been one long, emotional roller-coaster. The highs
and
lows just keep on coming.’

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, sensing he was
holding
something back. I knew I should be slowly warming up, but my body was still shivering, and I was finding it hard to understand what Rafe was saying.

‘Your mother and I had a very serious
argument
,’ he admitted. ‘I discovered that she’d been secretly dealing with the family lawyer, working on finding the Ormond Singularity.’

I coughed, almost choked. ‘What? Mum?
Working
with Rathbone?’

Rafe looked surprised that I knew who he was talking about.

‘Look, I don’t know how involved she is,’ he said, ‘so don’t go jumping to any conclusions, OK? But after she told me Rathbone had left for
Ireland
, and then your missing twin was arrested, I started piecing things together. As soon as I realised Boges had gone on some mysterious “excursion” I figured you’d both come here together. When I heard that Vulkan Sligo was on his way here, too, I knew you were in terrible danger—more than ever before.’

‘You were right,’ I said. ‘I survived Sligo, but Rathbone wasn’t as lucky. He’s dead.’

Rafe looked shocked.

‘Sligo murdered him,’ I explained. ‘Tossed him in a bog.’

Rafe just shook his head. ‘I knew Sligo would be tracking you,’ he continued as he drove, ‘so I tracked
him
to Clonmel Way Guest House, where I discovered all hell had broken loose. Your friends Winter and Boges filled me in on what had gone down.’

‘So they’re OK?’ I asked, relief hitting the deep frozen organ that was my heart.

‘They’re both fine. They chased after you for a while, but lost Sligo’s car. Winter had even borrowed a horse in an effort to keep up, but she simply couldn’t.’

‘Borrowed a horse?’

‘She found one in a paddock belonging to the Travellers and jumped the nearest fence to chase after you.’

I pulled the blanket around me, starting to thaw out, trying to imagine Winter ‘borrowing’ a horse like that.

‘They haven’t been able to go back to the guesthouse. They’re actually huddling down with some gypsies.’

‘The gypsies Winter borrowed the horse from?’

‘Yes, they’re camped out in some tents and caravans, by the river, a few kilometres south of the guesthouse. We’re heading there now.’

‘So how did you know I was down in that pit?’
I asked again, my teeth finally easing in their chattering.