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« on: May 09, 2023, 08:00:29 am » |
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THE cellar was not completely dark even at night when one’s eyes became accustomed to it; by day light came in through the pavement grating and even a shaft of sunlight, and at night there was a patch of light upon one wall from a street-lamp near by. Sounds also entered by the grating, traffic noises, and voices talking. It was even possible, if people passed close enough, for Denton to get a worm’s-eye view of part of them from the feet up. He noticed how men and women alike made a little detour to avoid his grating, and this rather annoyed him. There was a church clock somewhere in the neighbourhood which struck the hours; when sleep would not come he found it companionable.
He slept, or drifted into unconsciousness, for most of the first night after Hambledon had made him as comfortable as possible. The next day passed easily with the help of a basket of provisions and fruit and a feeling of lassitude so intense that he was glad to be away from everyone somewhere where there was not even need to speak. Towards evening he began to recover a little and to wish for a break in the monotony of his imprisonment. He did not desire the dark, either, there were too many spiders in that cellar, and in his weak state he had a morbid horror of their crawling upon him.
Soon after nine o’clock, when it was still daylight, suddenly the traffic ceased and there came a stillness which reminded him of one Armistice Day when he had been in London and the Two Minutes’ Silence had caught him unawares. Denton rose on his elbow and listened.
From somewhere farther down the street there came a hoarse command, another, and then a short crackle of rifle fire. Immediately, as though a spell had been broken, followed the sound of running feet, irregularly running as if those who ran looked over their shoulders as they fled. Some passed over his grating, several men and a woman or two, one was leading a child who fell down wailing, and was snatched up and carried on. One woman came to a stop just above him and leaned against the wall gasping for breath and sobbing, “Oh, Jakob, oh, Jakob, oh, Jakob,” over and over again. Denton fumbled for his automatic, and felt naked to the storm when he remembered it was not there.
Next came the sound of disciplined marching, coming nearer, and the weeping woman ran away. A voice outside cried, “Here, you there! Halt!” and a man stopped just where the woman had been. Charles Denton could see part of a grey tweed trouser-leg and one brown shoe, a well-to-do man, evidently. He said, “Do you mean me?” in a quiet, steady voice.
“That’s the man,” someone said. There followed another command, again the sound of shots, four in rapid succession. “Automatic,” said Denton to himself. The man above crumpled, and suddenly the cellar was completely dark, for his body covered the grating.
Denton sat up shaking, and fumbled for the cigarettes and the matches Hambledon had left him on his promise not to strike one in Hambledon’s presence, and on no account to allow a light to be seen from outside. There was no need to worry about the light now, the aperture was effectively blocked and shut out sounds as well, but Denton listened intently for a moment before striking the match. All he could hear was a trickling noise like the sudden overflowing of a gutter during a storm. “Rain,” he thought, “that’ll calm them down.” Then he remembered that a moment earlier the sun had been shining . . .
He scrambled back into the corner farthest away from the window regardless of spiders and loose lumps of coal, and with eyes open only the merest slits, enough to see his own fingers and nothing more, lit his cigarette. He had some difficulty in keeping both match and cigarette steadily together long enough to light it.
The trickle slowed after a little and became a steady drip—drip—drip, irritating enough to the nerves even if it had only been water. He desperately wanted a drink, but it took all his courage to go forward in the dark and fetch it for fear there should be pools of wetness on the floor and he should put his hand in one of them. More courage, after that, to subdue attacks of panic prompting him to hammer on the door and yell to someone, anyone, to let him out, let him out, let him out before the tide rose.
When Hambledon came an hour later, an interminable hour which seemed like days, he found his prisoner perched on a box in the corner with his feet up, repeating the Lays of Ancient Rome to himself aloud.
“ ‘The harvests of Arretium, this year old men shall reap, This year, young boys in Umbro shall plunge the struggling sheep, And in the vats of Luna, this year the must shall foam Round the white feet----’
Damn! Can’t I think of anything that doesn’t suggest blood?”
“My dear fellow,” said Hambledon hastily, “I am most frightfully sorry---I had no idea this had happened. Are you all right?”
“Oh, quite, thanks,” said Denton in a rather cracked voice. “Quite chirpy, thanks. I can’t see to read so I was repeating poetry to myself, that’s all. Habit of mine, always done it since a kid, when I couldn’t sleep, you know.” He laughed, and Hambledon did not like the sound of it. “When’s the funeral going to be, d’you know?”
“You are coming out of this, whatever happens. Will you excuse me a moment while I write a note? I will come back again at once.”
“Please don’t hurry,” said Denton airily. “Not that I am not delighted to see you---hear you, I mean---at any time, but don’t let me be a nuisance. It’s quite all right down here---quite home-like when you’re used to it.”
“Du Gott allmächtig,” said Hambledon, and left.
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