He got to his feet and struck a second match, and this time he scrutinised one side of the door carefully. Using a third match, he did the same with the other side. When the flame died, his hope, slender though it had been, died with it. There was nothing but the flat wooden surface of the inside of a door through which it had never been intended that anyone should pass back to the light. No handle, no knob, no bolt, no fixture of any kind that would bypass the lock.
He sank back onto his haunches and contemplated suicide. Anything but stay here in the dark, starving, breathing in stale air, ripening to death like a decaying fruit in a speeded-up video installation. He could try choking himself to death with his handkerchief rolled into a ball, but he knew that the vomit reflex in his throat would make him spit it out again. Death would come to him slowly and in delirium.
And then he thought of fire. He had it in his means to light a fire that might engulf him and kill him in due course. But where would he find enough kindling, and how could he create enough heat to burn himself without suffering cruel pain?
Perhaps he could find a cord somewhere, and a hook to tie it to, and strangle himself. Prisoners in cells managed it. As a young policeman, he’d once had to cut a man down in the cells beneath the magistrates’ courts, too late to save his life. Some managed it with shoelaces, others with neckties. He had neither.
He went over it all again, thinking himself through all the ways to end a human life, and he declared himself bereft of ideas. It occurred to him that, if he could bring himself to it, he could open one of the older coffins and plunder the skeleton inside. A broken leg bone might be sharp enough to let him cut his wrists or his throat. But how to break a coffin open without tools?
That was when he thought of fire again. The coffins were covered in cloth, cloth that would burn like a dream, and beneath the cloth was wood that would catch fire, and beneath the lid lay a lining, and beneath that a shroud. If he could burn off a lid enough to let him break it, he could do the rest. But it would be a waste of time if he could not steel himself to dig through rotten flesh to find a suitable bone, or use a fragment of bone to cut his own flesh to the bone.
And then he realised he would not need to go so far. All he had to do was set a lighted coffin against the door, get it burning until the dry wooden door caught light and burnt. If he could ignite a fierce enough flame, the door would give way in time, and he could burst it open. If he didn’t choke to death on the smoke first. But if he could punch a hole in the door early enough in the process, he could create a vent through which most of the smoke would escape.
Would it work? He shrugged. He’d thought of everything else and drawn a blank. If he didn’t act soon, the cold would send him back to sleep, and he might not wake up. That would be a peaceful enough end, but he feared it more than all the others.
He put the box of matches back into his pocket, in case he crushed them while trying to set a fire. In the dark again, and fumbling, he walked back down the wide aisle, stopping halfway to select one of the older coffins. Older cloth, older wood, older bones; he hoped this combination would help create quicker flames and greater heat.
The coffin fitted tightly inside its niche, but there was just enough space on either side for him to push his hands through, grazing his knuckles on the rough stone. Pulling the dead weight out would not be easy, he thought. But he had no choice. He got what purchase he could on the outer wrapper of felt, hoping the cloth would hold long enough for him to get a foot or so of the box out of its hole. He pulled, but the coffin would not budge. Taking a deep breath, he exerted all his strength; the cloth ripped on both sides, and he fell backwards, winding himself as he crashed into the array of coffins on the other side.
Picking himself up, he chose another coffin at random, this time slipping his hands beneath the box, with his thumbs above. The felt cloth tore again, but this time it did so nearer the broad-headed nails that held it in place close to the foot of the coffin. This in turn formed a handle of sorts that held long enough for Ethan to pull the coffin a fair distance from its niche.
Bit by bit, inch by inch, he yanked and dragged the long wooden box out into the aisle. As the head finally came free and crashed onto the floor, Ethan felt his arms drained of strength. He sat again, waiting for the blood supply to return, fearing again that gentle lapse, that slip into unconsciousness that would imprison him here for ever.
Pushing now, he got the coffin to the door and laid it lengthways against it. He was so far weakened by his exertions that he knew he would have to make do with a single coffin. He knew he would never find the strength to drag another from its niche.
Bracing himself, he stood next to the coffin, raised his foot, and brought it down on the lid with all the strength he could muster. It was little enough. The wood splintered, but the lid did not seem to break through. Again, he stamped down, and this time the lid cracked beneath him, and his foot went down into something that gave way like ice on a pond. Something that must have been bone shattered like twigs breaking. Despite the dark, he shut his eyes, hating to think what else his foot had come into contact with. Gingerly, he removed it from the jagged hole he’d created, moved it a foot to one side, and stamped down hard again. Wood and bone gave way, and this time something sharp tore his ankle.
He did it twice again, then stood breathless and filled with revulsion by the broken coffin. Reaching inside his pocket, he drew out the matchbox and opened it. His hand shook as he removed the first match, but he clenched his jaw and forced himself to strike it.
Bright flame shot up again. Pausing only to look for the first hole, he held the match into the coffin. Instantly, the tiny flame caught something inside, and he withdrew it, using the last part to ignite the baize covering. A second match set alight more of the shroud and inner lining, and a third, and a fourth. Everything he touched was dry as tinder. He grabbed the coffin from beneath and tilted it, so that the blossoming flames burnt with growing strength against the door.
Though he covered his mouth and nostrils with a handkerchief, the smoke drifted up into his eyes, and slowly began to work its way through his nose into his lungs. As the blaze grew, so the smoke became thicker and more corrosive. He was finally forced to stagger back, coughing and choking.
Recovering his breath, he ran towards the door and kicked it hard low down, where the flames had taken hold. It gave slightly, but the smoke forced him back again. His eyes were stinging, and his throat burnt with the acrid fumes. He retreated again. The flames were bright enough now to illuminate more of the door and the burning coffin, but he could see that they had not taken hold sufficiently to ensure a constant blaze. The smoke was spreading persistently through the vault. If he could not create a vent, he would soon be overcome.
He ran back, and this time managed to tilt the coffin far enough for it to wedge itself against the door, allowing the flames to catch hold of the side and bottom. Something rattled and shook within the box as he moved it. Coughing deeply now, he pulled back again and waited as long as he could for the flames to bite more deeply into the wood.
Holding the handkerchief tightly against his face, he ran forward again, kicking again and again at the charred door. Just as he was about to stagger away, he felt something give, and his foot went out, piercing through a hole that further lacerated his ankle. But as he looked down, he saw what seemed wholly miraculous to him, a broad lance of sunlight pouring into the mausoleum from outside. The smoke, granted a means of escape from the charnel house, rushed through the hole, blotting out the sunlight. Ethan went back as far as he could and watched as the flames took firm hold. Then forward again, kicking at the space around the hole, widening it, allowing more smoke to billow out.