He awoke with bleared eyes and a dry, scummy taste in his mouth. His head still ached; it was like the worst of all hangovers without the memory of enjoyment. A sound that alternated between a snort and a whistle was audible, and Keeton knew that this was Bristow snoring. But there was not so much noise outside the magazine; the wind seemed to have slackened, and though the ship was still listing to port and moving uneasily, there was no violent motion such as there had been earlier. And, greatest miracle of all, the Valparaiso was still afloat.
And then Keeton noticed something else — a thin, vertical line of light.
He got up painfully, his limbs stiff and sore from the hammering they had received and the cramped position in which he had slept. He moved towards the light and found that it was a thread of yellow sunshine which was pushing its way past the edge of the door.
Keeton’s brain ticked over slowly, still clogged by sleep and the heavy, oppressive atmosphere. He began to reason things out. If light could penetrate, then there must be a gap, however small; and if there was a gap the door could not be fully closed. These elementary deductions leaked into Keeton’s brain like water dripping from a faulty tap, a drop at a time. A flicker of hope leaped up in him, but he suppressed it, not daring to hope that here was the possibility of escape. Reason told him that the gap must have been there when Bristow and he had tried to force the door open; it had not been visible simply because of the gloom outside. The fact that the sun was now shining through it made it no bigger; sunlight merely traced it out and made it visible. Nevertheless, there might be a way.
Keeton reached towards the light with his fingers and felt the gap. It was perhaps a quarter of an inch wide, maybe more, maybe less. He allowed his fingers to travel down the gap and at the bottom he found the reason why the door had not shut completely: a spanner was wedged tightly between door and frame. There was no possibility of moving it even if he had wished to do so.
Keeton straightened up and called: ‘Johnnie!’
The snoring continued without pause and he could see Bristow at the far end of the magazine, a bulky outline in the gloom that was now slightly relieved by the light shining through the crack. He moved towards Bristow and stirred him with his foot. Bristow awoke suddenly and began to lash out with arms and legs, yelling wildly, apparently still in the grip of some nightmare. Keeton drew back out of range.
‘Stop that noise, you idiot. I want your help.’
Bristow suddenly noticed what Keeton had noticed a few minutes earlier. ‘There’s some light coming in.’
‘You’re observant, Johnnie, very observant indeed. Can you observe where it’s coming from?’
‘The door. It must be open. We’ll be able to get out.’
Keeton damped his hopes. ‘Not so fast, Johnnie. The door’s still jammed. There’s a little gap because there’s a spanner in the works, but we aren’t out yet. We’ll need a lever.’
‘What about a rifle?’
‘Could try it. But I doubt whether a rifle barrel would go into that crack.’
The rifles were clipped up against the side of the magazine. Keeton took one of them and tried to push the muzzle into the crack. As he had feared, it was too thick to go in.
‘We shall have to make a start with something thinner.’
‘I saw a marlinespike in here the other day‚’ Bristow said. ‘The P.O. was using it to open an ammo box.’
‘That could be the tool — if it’s still here.’
It took them nearly half an hour to find it; it had rolled between two of the boxes. In fact it was Keeton who found it, Bristow having already given up in despair. Keeton prodded him with the sharp end of the spike.
‘Here it is, Johnnie. Now we’ll get to work.’
He pushed the spike into the crack and tried to lever the door open. There was no apparent movement. He turned to Bristow. ‘Lend a hand, can’t you?’
Bristow came with his soft body and his fat hands and together they hauled on the lever. The door opened slightly, but as soon as they released the pressure it moved back into its former position.
‘We’ve got to get the rifle in‚’ Keeton said. He could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead, and already Bristow was dripping. ‘We can get more leverage with the rifle.’
‘Anyway‚’ Bristow said, with hope in his voice again, ‘we shifted it.’
Keeton picked up the rifle and leaned it against the door with the muzzle resting on the gap just below the marlinespike.
‘Now then. Again. Heave.’
Again they hauled on the spike. Again the door opened slightly. The rifle barrel went a short distance into the gap, but then the door closed and squeezed it out.
‘Take a breather‚’ Keeton said. ‘We’ll do it next time.’
He was the younger man but he had taken command as though by right. Bristow conceded him that right. Bristow was panting.
‘Lord, I could do with a drink. I’m parched.’
‘You’ll get one when we’ve done this job. Now.’
This time the rifle slid fully into the gap and was gripped there as in a vice. Keeton dropped the spike and took hold of the butt of the rifle.
‘We’ll need wedges or we’ll lose what we gain. Got any ideas?’
‘There’s the Lewis gun and the other rifle. We could take the butt off the Lewis.’
‘Get it,’ Keeton said.
The Lewis gun was in a wooden case. Bristow lifted it out and released the butt. He carried the butt and the second rifle to the door.
‘Put them down there‚’ Keeton said, ‘where I can push them in with my foot.’
Bristow obeyed, laying the improvised wedges in position at the bottom of the door.
‘All right. Now heave again.’
The rifle was a much more efficient lever than the spike because it was longer. The door shifted appreciably when they put their weight on it. There was a grinding sound of metal on metal. The resistance was still there, trying to force the door shut again, but Keeton managed to push the Lewis butt into the opening and they had consolidated their gain. A flow of clean air came through this wider gap and they sucked it gratefully into their lungs.
Another heave and the rifle butt was lying beside the butt of the Lewis gun. The gap had been doubled. Keeton leaned against the door, breathing heavily.
‘We need another wedge, Johnnie.’
‘No more guns.’
‘Bring one of those shells then.’
Bristow brought the shell and they levered it into the gap. And so they fought the door, sweating and panting; and in the end the door defeated them.
They had enlarged the opening to about seven or eight inches. Through it they could see some twisted iron, a smashed ventilator, and beyond an arc of sea and sky. Freedom was tantalizingly near and yet beyond their reach; for at this point the door had stopped again, resisting all their efforts to lever it further.
Keeton dropped the rifle. ‘Call it a day. No use wrenching our guts out any more. As far as that door is concerned, we’ve had it.’
Bristow slumped down on a box and put his head in his hands. His body was shaking, possibly from exertion, possibly from the bitterness of his disappointment after such high hopes of escape.
‘We’re here for good now. We’ll never get out.’
Keeton said nothing. He leaned against the wall of the magazine and his head ached. His whole body ached, as though it had been through a concrete mixer.