The Map of Chaos (48 page)

His situation did not look very promising. But the worst thing was that there was no sign of Doyle. Murray had seen him fall like a lead weight, a stunned look on his otherwise stern face. He wondered whether he had been swallowed by the hole, vanishing into the voracious inferno, but something inside him refused to accept that the father of Sherlock Holmes could have met with such a fate. Perhaps he had also managed to cling on to something. Murray leaned tentatively over the hole, but at that precise moment a huge tongue of fire shot up from the floor below, forcing him to recoil from the edge. He resolved not to attempt that again.

“Arthur!” he shouted, between splutters. “Arthur!”

He continued calling Doyle's name until he felt he was going to choke. He rummaged around in his jacket pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and covered his mouth and nose as waves of dizziness and nausea threatened to overcome him. His throat was gripped with convulsive sobs. Surely it wasn't possible. He couldn't be dead . . . Mustering the last of his strength, he called out Doyle's name one last time, feeling his scorched lungs beginning to fail. But no one replied. All he could hear was the fire's insatiable roar, that voracious, wild clamor, that ghastly, interminable crackle, as if a monstrous creature were chewing up the whole planet. All of a sudden, a familiar chuckle rang out a few yards from where he was on the ledge, between him and the stairs.

“So, your friend is dead . . . ,” the voice said, oozing a jubilant rage. “Then it's just you and me. And you can't see me . . . Now who is the hunter and who the hunted?” Murray heard the deranged laugh again, and it occurred to him that if he went on hearing it much longer, he would be infected by its madness. “I am Invisible Death, you fool! I warned you: you are all going to die . . .”

“Damn you!” Murray shouted, aiming his crossbow toward where the laughter was coming from, though without daring to fire it, for he knew if he missed he would not have time to reload.

The laughter fell silent as unexpectedly as it had burst out. Murray hesitated, pointing the crossbow nervously in every direction. He listened, trying not to cough, blinking furiously as tears streamed down his cheeks only to dry almost instantly with a faint hiss. He couldn't tell whether the invisible man was standing or crouching, whether he had moved away or, on the contrary, had drawn closer, so close that he could reach out and touch him. Nor was there any way of knowing whether he was still bleeding, as the floor was now stained with his own blood and covered in soot and ash, making it impossible to perceive any trail. It occurred to Murray that he could aim at where the creature's legs ought to be, but what if the creature was on the other side of the banister, the hallway side, possibly edging his way silently toward him, slotting his invisible feet between the bars? Then all he would have to do when he reached him was to push him into the hole, still clutching his stupid crossbow. Murray hurriedly slipped one of his feet between the banister bars and began sweeping the air furiously with his weapon, realizing that it was only a question of time before the dreadful push came. Any moment now his feet would slip from the floor, he would feel a sudden hollow in the pit of his stomach, and his body would plunge straight into the flames. But he did not want to die, he told himself angrily, not now that he knew Emma was alive in some parallel world and all he had to do was to find a way of reaching her.

“Where are you, you coward?” he swore at the creature, waving the crossbow in the air. “Go on, keep talking! Let me hear your loathsome voice!”

Murray peered carefully around him but was unable to see anything. If, as Wells described in his novel, the smoke the creature inhaled was revealing his breathing apparatus somewhere, it would be indistinguishable from the thick fumes obscuring everything. So, what could betray his whereabouts? Certainly not the soot and ash settling on his skin: that swine could be covered from head to toe in them and he would be just another shadow in the gallery, among the thousands created by the flames. To be visible, he must be covered with something reflective, like water or snow . . . With a sudden flash of hope, Murray remembered the sacks of plaster stored in the first room along the corridor. Yes, that was what he needed. If he could only get to them . . . But, alas, they were beyond his reach, because the moment he made a move, lowering his guard, the push would come that would send him plunging into the void.

Then something very peculiar occurred. A word formed in his mind, or rather intruded into his thoughts, as if it had come from somewhere outside his own consciousness: Reichenbach.

Murray's body tensed. He fixed his gaze on the corridor beyond the flaming pit, where, after few seconds, he made out an indistinct figure charging toward him with what appeared to be a bulky object on its shoulders. Murray's jaw dropped in astonishment.

For a few seconds he couldn't think who it might be, but when the figure reached the edge of the hole, with a mixture of astonishment and joy, he recognized Doyle. Doyle spun round several times, lifting the object from his shoulders like a hammer thrower and hurling it aloft with a great roar. Murray realized then that it was a sack of plaster. Before Murray had completely understood Doyle's intentions, he raised the crossbow and fired at the sack. And as Doyle teetered on the edge of the precipice, flailing his arms comically in a frantic attempt to regain his balance, Murray's arrow shot clean through the sack of plaster and a silent white explosion spread out in all directions. Doyle toppled over but at the last minute managed to cling on to the edge of the hole with both hands.

“Arthur!” cried Murray.

“Find him, Gilliam! Find the creature!” Doyle commanded, his legs swinging in the air as he tried to scramble back up.

Murray screwed up his eyes and looked around. And then he saw him. The plaster, descending from the sky like a fine snowfall, had begun to settle on the creature, outlining his head and part of his shoulders against the sooty air, revealing a shape that although still hazy was clearly human . . . As Murray had suspected, the spirit, or whatever it was, stood only a few yards from him, clutching the banister on the other side. He realized it must have been there all the time, just far enough away so that Murray's lunges with the crossbow did not send him plummeting down to the hallway, waiting for Murray to tire himself out before pushing him over the edge.

But now the rat was visible, and like a typical rat was fleeing, scuttling along the banister toward the staircase. Murray was afraid he would escape without anyone being able to stop him. Then he looked at the crossbow he was still clutching. From where he stood he had a clear view of the stairs and almost the whole hallway. Peering through the billowing smoke, he could see that Doyle was still struggling to clamber up onto the edge of the hole. Trusting that Doyle's strength would not fail him, Murray began to tighten the string. Doyle had described the loading of a crossbow as difficult and time-consuming, but he had also assured them that the power of a crossbow's arrow was unrivaled by that of any other type of bow, as it was almost impossible to miss a target with it, and that encouraged him. He placed his foot on the metal stirrup and, using all his strength, tightened the string, which moved up the shaft with exasperating slowness. He glanced again at the position of the creature, who had just leapt over a small gap between the ledge and the top steps and was beginning his descent. Murray had no time to lose.

To his astonishment, the creature then stopped in his tracks and studied Doyle, who was still dangling pathetically above the hole; after a few moments, instead of continuing his escape, he retraced his steps and began to walk slowly over toward the author. Murray watched with horror as he realized that the monster, spurred on by the rage and the evil that possessed him, had decided that, before escaping to continue spreading his reign of terror through the world, he would take Doyle's life. Murray swore. There was no way for him to reach his friend before the creature did. He could only finish loading the crossbow and fire it as quickly as possible. With a rasping cry, he tugged harder on the string, baring his teeth in a ferocious gesture. He could feel his neck bulging, and a sharp pain shot up his back, as if his spinal cord were also a string about to snap. Tiny lights started dancing before his eyes, but he managed not to flag. The bowstring moved slowly up the shaft. An inch or two more and it would slot into the notch on the revolving nut. With a mixture of despair and impotence, he watched the Invisible Man, whose outline was becoming gradually clearer as more plaster dust settled on him, pause beside Doyle, his chalky head moving from side to side, searching for something on the ground. Terrified, Murray saw him crouch down and pick up a heavy stone in his ghostly hands and raise it above his head. Then he dropped it angrily onto Doyle's left hand. Doyle let out a fearful yowl as his fingers slipped from the edge. The creature picked up another stone, making ready to crush Doyle's other hand, cackling like a madman. The outline of his mouth resembled a gash in the smooth white sheet that seemed to cover his head. Murray, too, gave a cry of pain as the bowstring finally slotted into the nut. Raising the crossbow, he aimed at the creature's unfinished creamy silhouette, and before the monster could hurl the second stone at Doyle, he fired.

The arrow cleaved the air at an astonishing speed and plunged into the creature's shoulder, propelling him several yards before slamming him against the wall. There he remained impaled, like a big pale butterfly pinned to a piece of cloth. Seeing he had hit a bull's-eye, Murray expelled all the air from his lungs. He had done it! He had shot the Invisible Man! However, now wasn't the time to revel in his exploit, when Doyle was holding on like grim Death to the edge of the hole with one hand. Murray discarded the now-useless crossbow and, after taking a deep breath, ran as fast as he dared along the ledge, feeling the floor break up beneath his feet like flakes of pastry. Reaching the end of the narrow strip of floor, he took a running jump and landed on the other side of the gallery. He was amazed to have emerged unscathed from his ordeal, but without wasting a second he ran toward Doyle, flung himself to the floor, and managed to grasp Doyle's hand just as his fingers were starting to slip disastrously off the edge, his last reserves of strength finally drained.

“I've got you, Arthur!”

•  •  •

I
T WAS A GRUELING
task, but nothing compared to loading a crossbow. With Murray's help, Doyle managed to clamber up over the edge of the hole. For a few moments they both lay sprawled on the floor, utterly exhausted, almost unconscious. Realizing they had no time to waste, they quickly got to their feet. Doyle coughed a couple of times, examining his bloody hand with the stoicism of a soldier accepting his wounds, and then contemplated the figure half-outlined in white pinned against the wall.

“We must take him with us,” he said.

“What!” Murray exclaimed.

“He's an exceptional creature and should be the subject of a scientific study.”

Just then the creature's head, which had been slumped on his chest, began to lift. One-eyed as he was, he contrived to look straight at them, as if he were the very essence of loathing or madness itself. A moment later, he vanished. He simply ceased to be there. All that was left was the arrow driven into the wall, no longer impaling anything but the air. From its wooden shaft a trickle of red blood appeared.

“No! Damn and blast it!” cried Doyle.

He took a step forward, but Murray stopped him.

“Where the hell do you think you're going? The house is about to fall down,” he said, pointing toward the stairwell.

Doyle swung round and saw that the fire had spread to the walls adjoining the stairs. The crashes and thuds they could hear coming from different corners of the house told them that parts of it were already collapsing.

“The hallway is in flames . . . ,” Doyle said unnecessarily.

“Getting across it is going to be difficult,” Murray added.

“But not impossible,” the other man grunted, undaunted by the situation. “Our only chance is to cover ourselves with some thick, resistant material and run through the flames.”

They looked at each other.

“The sacks of plaster!” they exclaimed as one.

The two men hurried to the storeroom, where Murray tore open a couple of the sacks and emptied the contents on the floor. He felt mildly euphoric. They might get out of there alive after all. Doyle seemed to think so, and he'd had many lucky escapes.

“Damn it, Arthur, I thought you were dead!” he cried, almost jubilantly, as he helped Doyle protect himself with one of the bags, pulling it down over his head like a medieval monk's hood.

“The truth is I remember little of what happened to me,” Doyle said, pressing his injured hand to his chest to make Murray's job easier. “I think I managed to grab hold of something when the floor gave way, but I must have banged my head and passed out. Your cries brought me round, and I was about to reply when I heard the creature's voice. I realized he assumed I was dead, and I decided it was best he go on believing that, for a while at least. Then, just as I was thinking how to help you . . .” Doyle looked solemnly at Murray. “I had the impression that . . . I could hear your thoughts.”

“My thoughts?”

“Yes, as clearly as if you'd been whispering in my ear, I heard the words: ‘If only I could get to the sacks of plaster.' That's why I went to fetch one, Gilliam.”

Taken aback, Murray stared at him but said nothing. He took the opportunity of covering himself with the sacking to avoid Doyle's gaze.

“That's what you were thinking, isn't it?” he heard Doyle say as he protected his head and as much of his exposed skin as possible.

“Yes,” Murray admitted at last. Then, after a long pause, he added: “Something similar happened to me. I thought . . . I heard you too.”