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‘Damn it, man, it won’t bite you.’ His voice had sharpened. The light caught his eyes and they glowed like two coals in the half-dark. He’d almost certainly drugged it, but if I didn’t take it I was afraid he’d try some other method of getting what he wanted.

‘All right,’ I said. I took the glass.

‘Well, up she goes.’

‘Cheers,’ I said and raised the glass to my lips. It was cognac all right. I tipped it up and let it spill down inside my jacket. I thought he couldn’t possibly see in the dark, but he did.

‘Why do you do that?’

I’d slipped up and I knew it, for he’d spoken softly, almost menacingly. And there was no pretence of an American accent. It was Dr. Sansevino speaking in English.

I didn’t say anything and we faced each other. There was a sudden void in the pit of my stomach and the hairs crawled along my scalp. We were no longer play acting now. We were face to face — I knowing who he was, and he knowing that I knew. I slid my hand to my jacket pocket. It was a mistake. He saw the movement and knew that I was armed. He dived for the piano. Propped against the music rest I caught the dull gleam of metal. As he picked it up my hand tightened on the butt of the automatic.

And in that moment the rectangular space of the window blossomed in a monstrous flower of flame that went roaring out across the sky. With it came a noise that seemed to fill the heavens with sound. It was like fifty thousand express trains thundering through a tunnel. It was like a tornado sweeping over the open gates of Hell. It was a lion’s roar magnified until it shook the earth. The villa trembled to its foundations. The ground on which it was built rocked. It was as though the world were splitting open under the impact of another planet.

I saw Sansevino standing with the revolver in his hand staring at the window as though transfixed. His features shone with sweat in the ruddy glare. I followed the direction of his gaze and saw that the whole summit of Vesuvius was on fire. Two great fire gashes streaked the mountainside and from the crater a great column rose, red at the base with the reflected glow, but darkening to a hellish black as it opened out, writhing and twisting as though in agony. And where it blackened and spilled outwards across the sky it was criss-crossed with vivid flashes of forked lightning.

The noise went on and on, prolonging itself unbelievably. It was the noise of an angry mountain — a mountain breaking wind from the distended bowels of its rock stomach. Its gases and lava-excreta were being sprayed out of its crater orifice — thousands on thousands of feet upwards.

I stood absolutely motionless, unable to move, the sight was so staggering, the noise so terrifying. In a mental flash I saw Pompeii, buried under its millions of tons of hot ash, men and women caught and held in the midst of their daily life to be exhibited to tourists two thousand years later. Was this the same? Was this noise the roof of the mountain being blown to airborne fragments? Were we to be buried here for the benefit of archaeologists years hence?

All these thoughts and half my life poured through my mind as I stared up at that ghastly sight, the noise dinning in my ears so that it seemed as though there never could be any other sound in all the world.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, it ceased. The abrupt stillness seemed somehow more frightening than the noise. The noise had died to a faint, whistling sigh high up in the black sky. It was as though it had never been and all living things were dead and silent. Through the rectangular frame of the window the world looked just the same, the vineyards and orange groves serene and tranquil. But the light had changed. The scene was no longer saffron-tinted. It was red — red as Hell itself. The moon had been blotted out. The scene was lit only by the end of the red glow of the mountain.

And then slowly the fires died down. The light seemed to go out of the scene, as though I were watching the sunset glow and the rim of the sun was sinking below the horizon. I looked up towards the mountain. The red streaks of the lava flow were gradually fading. A curtain was being drawn over the mountain, veiling the terrible red anger of it. In a moment it was black as the pit. And as the glow vanished all the world went black. I could see nothing — no sign of the vineyards or the orange trees, not even the shape of the window outlined against the night outside.

And then the gentle hissing sound of something falling — continuously and relentlessly. It was like the sound of hail. But it wasn’t hail. It had a heavy, sulphurous smell. It was ash raining down from the mountain above.

I knew then what to expect. This was it — the rain of ash that had buried Pompeii. The history of the mountain was repeating itself. I felt suddenly calm, almost detached. There is a moment after you have been badly frightened when you accept death as the inevitable, logical conclusion. That was how I felt as I stared at the black, sulphurous night with its sifting sound of falling ash. I accepted it, and once having accepted it I didn’t mind so much.

And now I became conscious of other sounds. A woman was screaming. A door banged and footsteps ran along the corridor overhead. The villa seemed suddenly to have come to life. It was like the relief of the jungle after it has been frozen to stillness by the hunting roar of a lion. Sansevino came to life, too. He turned and ran to the door. As he passed me he cried, ‘The cars. Presto! Presto!’

I turned and followed him. A torch was bobbing towards me down the stairs. The beam showed a grey curtain of ash sifting down from the top of the villa. The tiny particles gleamed and danced in the light. The torch flashed on my face and Zina’s voice said, ‘Che dobbiamo fare? Che dobbiamo fare!’

I could hear Sansevino shouting for Roberto. ‘They’ve gone for the cars,’ I told her.

‘We must get away from here. Where is Roberto? Roberto! Roberto!’ Her voice was a scream. ‘We must get to the car. We must drive away quick before the roads are blocked.’

I thought of the cabriolet’s canvas hood. Hot ash would burn through it. Anyway, how could any one drive through it? It’d be worse than driving through a sandstorm. The ash would be like a solid wall reflecting the light of the headlights. ‘Better to stay here,’ I said.

‘Stay here!’ she screamed at me. ‘Do you know what it is liked to be buried alive? Did you not see what happen to Pompeii? Dio Santo! I wish to God I never come ‘ere. Albanese of the osservatore tell me something will happen. But I have to come. I have to come.’ She was literally wringing her hands. I’d heard of people doing it, but I’d never actually seen it before. Her hands were locked together, her fingers twisting and twining so tightly that she seemed to be trying to squeeze the flesh out from between the bones. ‘We must get away. Dio ci salvi! We must get away.’

She was on the edge of hysteria. I caught hold of her shoulders and shook her. ‘Pull yourself together,’ I said. ‘We’ll get out of it somehow.’

She shook my hands off. ‘Let go of me. Idiota! Do you think I am a peasant and am going to scream? It’s only that I need—’ She didn’t finish, but in the light of my torch I saw that her eyes had a feverish, starved look.

There was something about her face that was quite frightening. She looked as though she were in hell. ‘What do you need?’ I asked her.

‘Nothing.’ Her voice was high and harsh. ‘We must get to the car. Hurry!’ She pushed past me and flung herself at the front door. When she found it was locked she turned like an animal in a trap. Then she darted towards the servants’ quarters. A candle glimmered in the darkness of the passage. ‘Agostino!’ It was Sansevino’s voice.

The candle halted. ‘Si, signore?’

‘Get upstairs and shut all the windows.’ Sansevino came through into the hall. ‘It’s hopeless,’ he said. ‘Thick as hell.’