‘This is where it ends, Chris,’ he said. ‘You’ve done enough.’
And then he did something that turned my mind upside down in bewilderment. He raised his hand, covered his mouth, and coughed. It was a deep, racking cough, a sound I’d heard twice before. One of those times was at the scene of Samuel Longden’s death.
‘Andrew?’ I said again.
But he didn’t answer. He moved in close to my body, laying his hand flat on my chest and leaning his face towards mine as if to whisper some secret. I smelt his breath and saw his teeth gleam white for a moment before he gave a sudden jerk. Then the ground went from underneath me and the horizon disappeared as the world tilted.
Before I had time to realise what was happening, I’d tumbled off the crumbling edge of the wharf and hit the mud in the bottom of the basin, landing so hard on my back that the air was driven out of my lungs. With a great squelch, my shoulders and back disappeared three inches into stinking ooze.
The fall could have injured me badly, if it hadn’t been for the steady rain that had turned the ground into a quagmire. The mud sucked at my limbs and spilled over onto my face and chest as I lay there, dazed and winded.
I struggled to get my eyes open. When I lifted a hand to wipe my face, I found I was only transferring more mud. Through smeared lids, I gazed up at the edge of the wharf, where a tall silhouette stood against the sky. Though I couldn’t see his face, I could tell from his posture that he was listening, cocking an ear at the sound of Simon Monks across the basin.
As I floundered to get a purchase on the mud, spitting out gobbets of the foul-smelling stuff from my teeth, the figure disappeared. I redoubled my efforts to push myself upright. Illogically, I was still thinking that my priority was to get back on my feet and get away from Monks, although the crashing in the undergrowth was far away and the real danger was very close.
And then there was a throaty rumble as an engine burst into life, and I looked up again. I could only watch as the monstrous black shape of the excavator appeared, outlined against the stars. It was inching out of the compound and towards the edge of the basin, its jaws swivelling to dig viciously into a heap of spoil and debris until its bucket overflowed. It bucked and lifted its load, spinning on its tracks. I caught a brief glimpse of Andrew bent over the controls in the cab, like an animal crouched over its prey.
Still I scrabbled in the mud, sinking further into the mess every time I tried to move my feet. Panic was only making my predicament worse, and I was becoming exhausted.
Finally, I stopped struggling and stared at the excavator as it trundled noisily along the edge of the wharf. Several tons of mud filled its metal jaws and slopped over the sides in great, slippery gouts. I’d seen Andrew use this machine on the site before, and I knew he was a skilful driver who could drop a load exactly where he wanted it. Right now, he was manoeuvring the excavator directly over my head.
I craned my neck to stare up in helpless fascination as the arms of the machine reared above me. If the weight of that mud didn’t break my neck, I would suffocate in seconds, with my lungs full of wet, stinking sludge. For the second time in a few days, I was staring into the face of death.
53
Every time a boat passes through a lock, thirty thousand gallons of water go with it, descending from the summit level, lock by lock, until they reach the end of the canal and flow into a river. The water in the summit pound is kept up to its level by a reservoir. Without that reservoir, the waterway would run dry with the continued passage of boats.
In my mind, that reservoir is a bit like the genetic memory that Great-Uncle Samuel thought he’d discovered. The water is released one surge at a time, flowing imperceptibly through the miles, just as a blood line passes from generation to generation of a family. But there’s no way to call on the whole reservoir at once. And there’s no way to grasp the entire thoughts and memories of your ancestors, to understand what drove them, what they desired or feared. The system hasn’t been designed that way.
I always said I’d never look back. But, in a way, my life had ceased to be a series of random, unconnected trivialities. I was starting to see myself as part of an unbroken strand, an individual segment of a coherent whole that stretched over the centuries and had its own unique significance. I’d begun to believe there was a meaning for everything, after all.
William and Josiah Buckley had both died close to that spot at Fosseway Wharf. Their lives had been cruelly taken from them, their place in the flow cut violently short. I’d seen in my nightmares the way they both met their deaths. I’d felt their fear, as real as if it were my own. The fate of my ancestors was inextricably linked to mine.
But I’d vowed to avenge their deaths, not to allow myself to die in the same way. I hadn’t come all this way to suffocate in three feet of mud. I was the last Buckley, the end of the line, and I carried the weight of expectation of all those generations who’d gone before me. When history’s boot is in your face, the only thing to do is fight back.
I can’t pretend all these thoughts went through my mind as I wallowed in the canal basin watching Andrew Hadfield manoeuvre the excavator bucket into a killing position. There was really no thinking involved. It was more like a great surge of defiance, a furious rejection of the prospect of death that sent new strength rushing through my body and pulled my limbs free from the clinging mud at last.
My foot found a fallen lump of brickwork. I kicked out against it, and suddenly I was free and moving. It felt as though unseen hands had reached out to pluck me from the morass and set me on my feet.
I didn’t waste any more time. With my muscles straining and my breath coming in painful gasps, I thrashed across the sea of mud, feeling fresh rain starting to fall on my sweat-soaked face and wash away the caked muck. I thought I heard a curse from the direction of the excavator cab, then a grinding of gears as the machine began to turn.
I plunged along below the wharf side, feeling the ground get firmer and firmer underfoot. I realised there was more and more fallen rubble in the bottom of the basin the further I went towards the end of the wharf. The brickwork was powdery and disintegrating, broken down and ruined by the passage of time. Looking over my shoulder, I saw my advantage of surprise was rapidly being lost as the excavator kept pace with me on the wharf above.
My burst of energy was already failing me when I saw a brick pier jutting out into the basin from the darkness. The top looked indistinguishable from the rest of the wharf, but from below I could see the brickwork was decayed so much it was on the point of collapse. The packed earth supporting the masonry was bursting through bulging walls. The pier looked as though it could fall at any moment, perhaps as soon as I touched it.
I staggered my way to the end of the pier, and finally the energy drained from me completely. I watched in desperate hope as Andrew stopped and twisted the wheel to send the excavator trundling towards me. The tracks of the machine got only halfway along the pier before the ground began to give way.
For a moment, Andrew didn’t seem to notice the danger. His attention was distracted by a running figure that came from the direction of the old warehouse and leaped onto the back of the excavator, shouting and gesticulating. I realised it was Simon Monks, arriving on the scene at last. Having pursued me into Andrew’s trap, he was now attempting to avert the disaster that he and I could see, but Andrew Hadfield couldn’t.
But Monks was too late. In the next moment, the walls of the pier disintegrated and the excavator tipped precariously. Earth showered into the basin, and I threw my hands over my head to protect myself against the cascade of broken bricks that followed. The giant machine sank with a jolt as the ground subsided beneath it. I could hear the engine whining and the tracks spinning uselessly until the excavator began to topple, the weight of the debris in its bucket throwing it sideways off the derelict pier.