Scorpia (7 page)

He tried to feel with his hands. There was an upsurge of water right beneath him. This was the
source of the inflow. The water was coming directly up from some sort of opening. So this had to be the way out. The only question was – could he do it? He would have to force himself, head first, through the tiny gap, find the opening and swim into it. If he got stuck he would drown upside down. If the passage was blocked he would never make it back again. He was kneeling in front of the worst death imaginable. And the water was creeping up his spine, pitiless and cold.

Bitter anger shivered through him. Was this the destiny that Yassen Gregorovich had promised him? Had he come to Venice simply for this? The sirens were still howling. The water had covered the first two steps and was already lapping at the third. Alex cursed, then took several deep breaths, hyperventilating. When he had forced as much air into his lungs as he thought they could take, he toppled over and plunged head first through the hole.

The gap was barely big enough. He felt the edge of the wooden floorboards bite into his shoulders, but then he was able to use his hands to propel himself onward. He was utterly blind. Even if he had opened his eyes, the water would have been black. He could feel it pressing against his nostrils and lips. It was ice cold and stinking. God! What a way to die. His stomach had passed through the opening but his hips were stuck. Alex
twisted like a snake and the lower part of his body came free.

He was already running out of air. He wanted to turn and go back, but now fresh panic gripped him as he realized that he was trapped inside some sort of tube with no room to go any way except down. His shoulders banged against solid brick. He kicked out with one leg and was rewarded with a stab of pain as his foot hit the wall that enclosed him. He felt the current swirling round his face and neck – ropes of water that wanted to bind him for ever in this black death. He became aware of the full horror of his situation now that there was no escape from it. No adult would have been able to get this far. It was only because he was smaller that he had been able to make his way into this well shaft or whatever it was. But there was no room for manoeuvre. The walls were already touching him on every side. If the tube became any narrower, he would be stuck fast.

He forced himself on. Forward and down, his hands groping ahead of him, dreading the metal bars that would tell him Nile had been laughing at him from the start. His lungs were straining; the pressure was hammering at his chest. He tried not to panic, knowing it would only use up his air more quickly, but already his brain was screaming at him to stop, to breathe in, to give up and accept his fate. Forward and down. He could hold his breath for two minutes. And it couldn’t have been more
than a minute since he had taken the plunge. Don’t give in! Just keep moving…

By now he must be ten or fifteen metres under the cellar floor. He reached out and whimpered as his knuckles struck brick. A few precious bubbles of air escaped between his lips and chased up his body, past his flailing legs. At first he thought he had come to a dead end. He opened his eyes for a split second. It made no difference at all. Open or closed, there was nothing to see: he was in pitch darkness. His heart seemed to stop beating. In that moment, Alex experienced what it would be like to die.

But then his other hand felt the curve of the wall and he realized that at last the well shaft was bending. He had reached the bottom of an elongated J and somehow he had to get round the turn. Perhaps this was where it finally joined the canal. As it twisted, it tightened. As if the swirling water wasn’t enough, Alex felt the brickwork close in on him, scratching his legs and chest. He knew he had very little air left. His lungs were straining and there was a giddy emptiness in his head. He was about to slide into unconsciousness. Well, that would come as a blessing. Maybe he would never feel the water rushing into his mouth and down his throat. Maybe he would be asleep before the end.

He turned the corner. His hands hit something – bars of some sort – and he was able to pull his legs
round. Only then did he discover that his worst fears had been realized. He had come to the end of the well shaft but there was a metal barrier, a circular gate. He was holding it. There was no way out.

Perhaps it was the sense of having come so far, of being cheated at the end, that gave him strength. Alex pushed and the metal hinges, weakened by the rust of three hundred years, shattered. The gate opened. Alex swam through. His shoulders came clear and he knew that there was nothing above him except water. He kicked out and felt the broken edge of the gate cut into his thigh. But there was no pain. Just a surge of desperation, a need for this to be over.

He was facing up. He could see nothing but he trusted to his natural buoyancy to take him the right way. He felt bubbles tickling his cheeks and eyelids and knew that, without wanting to, he was releasing the last of his breath. How far down had he gone? Did he have enough air left to reach the surface? He kicked as hard as he could, scrabbling with his hands – doing the crawl, only vertically. Once again he opened his eyes, hoping to see light … moonlight, lanterns … anything. And maybe there was a glimmer, a white ribbon flickering across his vision.

Alex screamed. Bubbles exploded from his lips. And then the scream itself erupted as he broke through the surface into the dawn light. For a
moment his arms and shoulders were clear of the water and he took a huge gulp of air, then fell back. Water splashed all around him. Lying on his back, cushioned by the water, he breathed again. Rivulets of water streamed down his face. Alex knew they were mixed with tears.

He looked around him.

He guessed it was about six o’clock in the morning. The siren was still sounding but there was nobody about. And that was just as well. Alex was floating in the middle of the Grand Canal. He could see the Bridge of the Academy, a vague shape in the half-light. The moon was still in the sky, but the sun was already stealing up behind the silent churches and palaces, casting a faint light across the lagoon.

Alex was so cold that he could no longer feel anything. He was aware only of the deathly grip of the canal, trying to drag him down. With the last of his strength he swam across to a flight of uneven stone steps on the far side of the Grand Canal, away from the Widow’s Palace. Whatever happened, he never wanted to go near that place again.

He was naked from the waist up. He had lost his sandals and his trousers were in tatters. Blood was running down one leg, mingling with the filthy canal water. He was soaked. He had no money and his hotel was a train ride away, outside Venice. But Alex didn’t care. He was alive.

He took one look back. There was the palace, dark and silent. The party had long ago come to an end.

Slowly he limped away.

T
om Harris sat back in the second-class carriage of the
pendolino
– the fast train from Venice to Naples – and looked out of the window as the buildings and fields slipped by. He was thinking about Alex Rider.

Alex’s absence had, of course, been noticed the night before. Mr Grey had assumed he was late getting back to the hotel, but when his bed was still empty at half past ten, the alarm buttons had been pressed. Mr Grey had alerted the police and then telephoned Alex’s guardian – an American woman called Jack Starbright – in London. Everyone at Brookland knew that Alex had no parents; it was one of the many things that made him different. It was Jack who had calmed the situation down.

“You know what Alex is like. Sometimes he lets his curiosity get the better of him. I’m glad you
called, but I’m sure he’ll show up. You really don’t need to worry.”

But Tom
was
worried. He had seen Alex swallowed up by the crowd at the Widow’s Palace and knew it was something more than curiosity that had led his friend there. He didn’t know what to do. Part of him wanted to tell Mr Grey what the two of them had done. Alex might still be in the palace. He might need help. But another part of him was afraid of getting into trouble … and perhaps getting Alex into even more trouble than he was in already. In the end he decided to keep silent. They were leaving the hotel at half past ten the next morning. If by that time there was still no news from Alex, he would come forward and tell them where he was.

In fact, Alex rang the hotel at half past seven. He was, he said, on his way to England. He had got homesick and had decided to leave early. Mr Grey took the call.

“Alex,” he said. “I can’t believe you’ve done this. I’m meant to be responsible for you. When I brought you on this trip, I trusted you. You’ve completely let me down.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Alex sounded wretched and that was how he felt.

“That’s not good enough. Because of you, I may not be allowed to take other kids on future trips. You’re spoiling it for everyone.”

“I didn’t mean this to happen,” Alex said. “There
are things you don’t understand. When I see you next term, I’ll try to explain it to you … as much as I can. I really am sorry, sir. And I’m grateful to you for the way you’ve helped me this summer. But you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be all right.”

There were a lot of things Mr Grey wanted to say but he stopped himself. He had got to know Alex well in all their hours together and liked him. He also knew that Alex was like no other boy he’d ever met. He didn’t believe for a minute that Alex was homesick. Nor did he think he was on his way back to England. But sometimes, just occasionally, it was better not to ask.

“Good luck, Alex,” he said. “Look after yourself.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The rest of the school party had been told that Alex had already left. Miss Bedfordshire had packed his bags for him, and everyone else had been too busy sorting out their own things to think about him any more. Only Tom knew that Alex was lying. They had been sharing a room in the hotel, and Alex’s passport was still on the bedside table. Acting on impulse, Tom had taken it with him. He had given Alex his brother’s address in Naples. There was still a chance he might show up there.

The scenery flashed past, as uninteresting as scenery nearly always becomes when seen through the grimy window of a train. Tom had parted company with the school party outside
the hotel. They were flying back to England. He had a ticket to Naples, where his brother would be waiting to meet him. He had about six hours to kill. There was a Game Boy in his backpack and a book –
Northern Lights
. Tom didn’t much like reading but everyone in his class had been told they had to get through at least one novel during the summer holidays. There were just a few days left until the start of term and he was only on page seven.

He wondered what had happened to Alex. And why had Alex been so determined to break into the Widow’s Palace in the first place? As the train rattled on, leaving the outskirts of Venice behind, Tom thought about his friend. They had met two years ago. Tom – who was about half the size of anyone else in his year – had just been beaten up. This was something that seemed to happen to him quite often. In this case it was a bunch of sixteen-year-olds led by a boy called Michael Cook who had suggested he should use his lunch money to buy them cigarettes. Tom had politely refused and a short while later Alex had come across him sitting on the pavement, picking up his tattered books and wiping blood from his nose.

“You OK?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a broken nose. I’ve lost my lunch money. And they’ve told me they’re going to do it all again tomorrow. But otherwise I’m fine.”

“Mike Cook?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe I should have a word with him.”

“What makes you think he’ll listen to you?”

“I’ve got a way with words.”

Alex had met the bully and two of his friends behind the bike shed the following day. It was a short meeting but Michael Cook never bothered anyone else again. It was also noticed that, for the following week, he limped and spoke in a strangely high-pitched voice.

That was the start of a close friendship. Tom and Alex lived near each other and often cycled home together. They were in lots of teams together – despite his size, Tom was extremely quick on his feet. When Tom’s parents started talking about divorce, Alex was the only person he told.

In return, Tom probably knew more about Alex than anyone at Brookland. He had visited his house a few times and had met Jack, the cheerful, red-haired American girl who wasn’t exactly his nanny or housekeeper but seemed to be looking after him. Alex had no parents. Everyone knew that Alex had lived with his uncle – who must have been rich, judging from the house. But then he had died in a car accident. It had been announced in school assembly and Tom had gone round to the house a couple of times, hoping to find Alex, but he had never been in.

After that, Alex had changed. It had started with his first long absence from school in the spring term, and everyone assumed that he must have been knocked off balance by his uncle’s death. But then he had disappeared again in the summer term. There was no explanation. Nobody seemed to have any idea where he went. When the two of them had finally met again, Tom had been surprised how much his friend had changed. He had been hurt. Tom had seen some of the scars. But Alex also seemed to have got a lot older. There was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, as if he had seen things he would never be able to forget.

And now this business in Venice! Maybe Miss Bedfordshire was right after all, and Alex really did need to see a shrink. Tom reached for his Game Boy, hoping to put the whole thing out of his mind. He knew he ought to continue with the book, and he promised himself he would go back to it in two or three hundred miles’ time … after they had gone through Rome.

He became aware that someone was standing over him, and automatically fumbled for his ticket. He looked up and gaped. It was Alex.

He was dressed in old-fashioned jeans and a baggy jersey, both one size too big. He was dirty; his hair was matted and untidy. Tom glanced down and saw that he was barefoot. He looked worn out.