The Nurse's War (30 page)

She walked back from the tombs to her position by the wall and was about to sit down again when the thought came into her mind that if the tombs hadn’t come through the door, and hadn’t been constructed on site, they must have been built and ornamented elsewhere and in some way lowered into the chamber. But how? She stepped carefully back to the centre of the room and looked up. Blank darkness met her stare. A small trickle of light came from the narrow window high up on the left-hand side of the wall, but from this far down, it was little help. She hitched up her skirts and managed to clamber onto the middle and largest of the tombs. Steadying herself by planting her feet as firmly as she could astride the stone coffin lid, she looked up again. From here, she could see a little better. She continued to stare upwards and, just as she felt she was giddy enough to fall, she brought into focus a wooden beam which ran crossways from wall to wall of the mausoleum. In the middle of the beam and immediately above the tomb on which she was standing, there appeared to be a hook. A large iron hook.

She was sure of it. They had used a pulley system to lower the sarcophagi into place. In which case, a part of
the ceiling must have been left open to the sky while the operation took place. And then plastered over. She felt excitement spurt through her. If she could get to the beam, discover that opening, she might perhaps be able to punch her way through the plaster into the roof space. Then it would simply be a matter of dislodging roof tiles, a sufficient number to make a hole large enough to climb out of. She could escape. She could save Grayson.

But her excitement shrivelled as quickly as it had sprung to life. How on earth was she to reach the beam? It was at least fifteen feet above her head, even while standing on the tomb. She needed a rope, a rope that would catch on to the hook. She wondered if she was still agile enough to climb. If practice was all, she would shin to the top in seconds. How many times had she done that as a child? A rope had been their escape route from the orphanage at Eden House. One of them keeping cavey, while the other threw a rope into the branches of a tree which grew on Cobb Street, just outside the perimeter wall. They would haul themselves up and over. It was one of the few times she’d felt any sense of camaraderie at the orphanage. Whoever went over the wall would come back with food for those left behind—food that had been thrown out, food that had been begged, sometimes food stolen from an unwary stallholder. But she’d been ten years old then, and there had been a solid brick wall to guide her feet upwards.

She scolded herself for her silliness. Here she was fantasising about climbing a rope when there was not even a
length of string. Unless … She peeled off her cape, then her starched pinafore and, after a few minutes’ hesitation, her dress and petticoat. Her skin was stiff with cold and she found herself shivering uncontrollably in what was left of her thin cotton underwear. Get on with it, she urged herself, or you’ll freeze to the spot and become an ice statue. She made each item of clothing into rolls, then twisted them into long sausages. Each sausage was tied, one to another. She stood back and surveyed what she could see of her handiwork. She had her makeshift rope, though whether it would reach far enough, she had no idea. The only way she would find out was to try. The rope had to catch on to the hook so she tied a large loop in the top of the petticoat and clambered back onto the tomb. Experimentally, she threw the rope upwards. It fell to her feet. She tried again, and then again and again for minutes on end, until her arms throbbed and her shoulders were contorted with pain. It wasn’t going to work, she thought dejectedly. The loop she’d tied could get no purchase on the hook. Idly, she turned the rope upside down. Before she gave in, she would try throwing it, cape upwards. Her first throw and she heard a clinking sound. She tugged. The rope was firm! The chain that fastened her cape, she realised, had miraculously fallen over the hook and was keeping the rope in the air.

But would it hold her weight? She was light, very light, but she was taking a dreadful risk. She could almost hear the cloth splitting as the chain was torn from its surrounding cape. She would fall then, straight down onto
the sarcophagus or plummet beyond to the stone-flagged floor. It might mean a quick death but equally an agonising injury. She had to try though. She took off her shoes and stockings and tied one shoe to each end of the hosiery and hung them round her neck. She needed her feet bare if she were to have any chance of getting to the top of the rope. She reached up and took a small jump, her hands clutching on to the material she had rolled and twisted. Then her naked feet clamped themselves around the flimsy petticoat and she began to haul herself up towards the stripes of her nurses’ frock. One hand after another, knees bending and straightening, feet following, as she inched her way upwards. She must be over halfway now, she thought, and paused before she once more reached up. This time she felt the wool of her cape and knew there could only be a few feet to go.

Then she heard the noise, very close, just above her head. A splitting noise. It was the chain pulling away from the cloth. It had had enough. As she’d climbed higher, the strain on it had grown greater and it was now shredding. She did not dare to look down at what awaited her, but fixed her eyes above. In the dim light coming from the window, she could see the hook and the bar which supported it. Just one, two more lunges and she should be there. The splitting sounded louder. She was exhausted, her arms had ceased to feel like a part of her body, her legs in pain, her feet twingeing with cramp and cold. With a huge effort, she grabbed another piece of cape and heaved
herself up again. In desperation one of her hands shot out and grabbed for the beam. Then she was clasping it with both hands. She hung there suspended in mid-air with the cloak hanging by a thread beside her. The breath had been knocked from her by the effort, but she dared not pause. There was no time to wait to feel better. There was no way she would feel better until she was sitting on that beam. Again she pushed herself up, the sinews in her arms rigid and tearing. One knee was on the wood. The beam was wider than she’d thought, wide enough to kneel comfortably. And then she was there, her head bent, her breath coming in short gasps. Beneath her, the tomb was barely distinguishable and the floor had vanished into obscurity. Had she really climbed that distance? Euphoric barely described how she felt.

But hard reality soon replaced euphoria. As soon as her breathing returned to normal, she manoeuvred herself into a standing position and forced her tired arms to reach up again, but this time to the ceiling. Its central section was shaped like a dome and she was sure there would be a patch that would have only a light covering of plaster. That was the spot she must find. Her knuckles knocked at the plasterwork. It sounded ominously solid. Inch by inch, she knocked a circle around the dome but always with the same result. There was no place that was hollow. The roof must have been concreted over from the outside and there was no way out. She was crushed, despairing. To have got so far … and now she was stranded. Not even a cold floor
for a final resting place. All she could do was sit hunched on this beam until drifting into sleep, she lost her balance and fell to her death.

Very soon Grayson would die too, just a few miles away. She tried valiantly to fight back the tears. Sweetman would be on his way to Pitt House by now. She couldn’t see her watch, but she sensed it must be close to eleven o’clock. He would be driving northwards, his suitcase collected and ready for his getaway. A getaway that would leave a trail of death behind. She sat with her eyes closed, squeezed tightly to prevent the tears that constantly welled. When she opened them at last, she noticed that the light had subtly changed. It seemed to have become a very little brighter. She peered across at the window. It had been a chilly day and the sky had remained grey and clouded throughout. Now, though, a moon was shining somewhere in the sky and touching the narrow casement with its silver.

She looked at the window again. It had to be too small to squeeze through, even if she were able to open it. On all fours she crawled along the beam towards it. The panes of glass were wet. It must have been raining and raining hard, and a sliver of moonlight was glancing off the small drops of water and making them dance. There was no catch to the window but even if there had been, it was unlikely to work after all these years. She looked again, trying to measure the space in her mind. Just maybe she could fit herself through. It was a long shot, but what had she to lose? She crawled backwards to where she’d been
kneeling and pulled up her improvised rope. If she ever got out of this place of death, she would need her clothes. Then back to the window, dragging the clothes behind her. Very carefully, she wrapped the cape around her hand and punched at the window. The glass was tough and she had to punch hard several times before the first crack appeared. She kept on punching while the cracks multiplied, until finally she had reduced the glass to shards, which fell one by one into the void below.

The night air hit her full in the face and she gulped it down in large breaths. It gave her a new strength. A new determination. The living world was out there and within her reach. In the moonlight, she could see a ledge just below the window and, beyond that, she thought she could make out a tangle of bushes marching into the distance. She threw her clothes down and heard them land very softly some way below. Hopefully that meant there was a bush to break her fall, since she would have to drop from a considerable height. Climbing down a steep, smooth wall, which lacked visible handholds, was an impossibility. She managed to scrunch into a small ball and started to feed herself through the window—leg, arm, head. There was barely space and her body scraped and stuck against the iron frame. Jagged pieces of glass still lined its edges and they caught at her bare skin mercilessly. She knew she was bleeding, but she couldn’t let it deter her. She was almost there. Her second arm was free now and she reached down for the ledge with both hands, at the same time wrenching
the rest of her body through the narrow space. Then she was hanging on to the ledge with both hands, her legs swinging free in the cold night air.

She couldn’t see what lay immediately below. For all she knew, an unforgiving monument or thrusting gravestone could spell danger, but she had to believe she would be all right. She closed her eyes and let go. The breath was once more punched from her body as she plummeted downwards, and landed in the middle of a large bush. It took her some minutes before she could disentangle herself, but once she was standing on the grass, she took stock. Her neck throbbed, her arms and legs were cut and bruised and her face trickled with blood, but she was still in one piece. The moon was riding clear and a few yards away her white starched pinafore shone brightly in its light. She retrieved a handkerchief from its pocket and wiped away as much of the blood as she could.

It was difficult to dress. Her hands were so cold that they fidgeted and fumbled with the buttonholes and studs of her nurse’s uniform. But at last she was ready and wrapped what was left of the cape around her shoulders. The rain had stopped but it was still unseasonably cold. She had no idea where she was, other than in a cemetery. An overgrown cemetery at that, and without an evident pathway. In the crystalline light, she saw she had been very lucky. A mass of gravestones surrounded her, scattered at random as though thrown down by a giant hand. Their lichened heads poked through tall grass and wild saplings, whose leaves
seemed to whisper angrily at her intrusion. And everywhere ink black shadows and a mountain of glistening vegetation. She stood for a moment and listened. Soft rustlings filled the undergrowth, and she took some comfort that other living creatures were near.

With difficulty, she made her way around the mausoleum walls to what she judged must be the front. Surely there would be a path leading to its door. There was. It was a meagre strip of gravel but it had to go somewhere, she reasoned, and could only hope it was to the entrance. She began to walk as fast as she dared along the badly pitted ribbon of shingle. Wherever she looked, there were more and more graves and most of them abandoned, their drunken headstones forming a battered army on the march. She tried not to think about them, tried to block from her mind their lowering shapes and focus on the path ahead. But the place was frightening. Every so often a towering angel or crucifix hidden in shadows would rise from the dark to terrify. And somewhere in the night, an owl hooted.

She hurried on, skirting fallen branches and patches of rubble that here and there blocked the path. While the moon floated free, her progress was steady, but then the sky began to haze and, quite suddenly, the moon was lost and the world turned black. It was so dark that she could no longer see her hands. She was forced into a shuffle, her feet constantly searching for the path. Yet she had to go faster. If she continued to move at this snail’s pace, she would never get out. And she must, she must get to a telephone.
In frustration, she began to walk too swiftly, blundering ahead in the dark, until out of nowhere she lost the path. She felt grass beneath her feet, and tried to turn back in the direction she thought she’d come, but the pathway eluded her. She turned again and now she was thoroughly confused. Her foot hung in the air ready for another step, when the moon chose that moment to swim from out of its basket of cloud and she could see again. Down into an abyss. She had been about to walk into an abyss. It was an underground city, a circle of small houses each with its own door and lintel, and dug at least twenty feet deep into the ground. Beside each door was a carved scroll, a roll call of the inhabitants, she imagined. She stood on the grass precipice and looked across the chasm. A flight of stairs opposite led down to this city of the dead, but it wasn’t the stairs she would have used. One more step would have plunged her downwards onto stone flags. While the moon still shone, she must hurry and find the path again.