Her weight was gradually and inexorably dragging Gabe over the brink, no matter how hard he resisted with his other hand and knee pushing against the outside of the circular wall.
'Don't let me go, Daddy!' she cried up at him, pleading with wide terrified eyes.
'Never,' he grunted in a strained low murmur, more to himself than his daughter. He would not let her go. Even if it meant falling in with her, he would not let go of Loren.
There was a sudden distraction. He became aware of movement in the cellar and he raised his head an inch or two, quivering with the effort. As he had feared, the dark shape of Pyke was rising over the opposite side of the well.
His back to Gabe, the big man bowed his head into his hands and rocked slightly. Then he straightened and slowly turned around.
There was a gash on his forehead where the blade had hit him—Gabe had been aiming for his throat—and Pyke raised a hand to it and examined the blood on his fingertips. He regarded Gabe with a cold, furious glare.
'You shouldn't have done that,' he said as if chiding a naughty child, his anger completely contained.
Gabe barely heard his words over the commotion of the underground river, so mildly were they spoken.
'Now you will be included,' Pyke added. 'And your wife, and your other brat.'
'You're crazy!' Gabe spat out. His body shifted a fraction of an inch across the wall and he fought desperately against Loren's pull.
'Naturally that will be my plea,' Pyke replied tartly, pleased with himself. 'Put away for a few years, playing the game with psychiatrists and various busybodies, then, when they realize I've miraculously recovered my sanity, they will have to let me go. Care in the community is the worst I can expect.'
'They'll never let you out You'll rot inside an asylum for ever, Pyke!'
'We'll see,' he said brusquely, the matter closed as far as he was concerned.
Gabe laid his cheek back on the wall, relieving the strain to his neck for a moment. Help me, God, he prayed silently and guiltily, and without hope because the only time he'd ever asked God for help was when Cam went missing. Just give me one chance now.
He looked down at Loren, desperate for an idea, anything to cancel the maniac and get her out of the well. She stared up at him, quietened now, just hanging there. Beneath her, the water swirled and spumed, hungry to take her. Hungry to take them both.
Raising his head once more, he saw that Pyke was bending over, reaching for something. Metal clanked against the concrete floor and Gabe knew that the big man was picking up the blade he had thrown at him. With his walking stick broken, Pyke needed another weapon.
Pyke straightened and he was smiling. A cruel smile. A satisfied smile. He tapped the metal bar against the palm of his hand and his smile corrupted to a sneer. A little unsteady because of the wound to his forehead, he took a step towards the well where the engineer lay defenceless.
But Pyke suddenly halted. He turned his head to one side, as if listening.
Gabe had heard nothing over the sound of the subterranean river.
Now Pyke was turning all the way round as though something had caught his attention.
Gabe turned his head a little more to see what was engaging Pyke's interest.
It was barely visible, but something stood in the black entrance to the boiler room.
It was watching them.
77: FROM THE DARK
It was strangely compelling, its mere presence in the doorway enough to render Pyke immobile. Yet it was in shadow, an unknowable and unclear adumbration. It might have been a figure.
Gabe shivered, a reaction so strong that it shook his whole body in spite of the weight he bore and the awkwardness of his position.
Pyke dropped the heavy blade and stood transfixed. He gave out a small moan.
They both stared at the dark, undefined shape in the opening of the boiler room.
It seemed like minutes, but it could only have been seconds before the thing moved. With great deliberation, as if each footstep were considered, it came forward unsteadily from the doorway, and although emerging into the dismal light, it seemed to carry the shadows with it so that it was still difficult to determine. But as it drew nearer—nearer to Pyke—it appeared to take on a definite form.
Still determinedly keeping hold of Loren, Gabe realized it was the slight figure of a woman or girl, for it wore a faded skirt that ended just above the ankles. Sodden leather shoes whose metal buckles were brown with rust and corrosion were on her feet. Her gait was awkward and slow, for the right foot dragged behind so that it scuffed and scraped the stone floor. Each dull thud of a footstep was followed by the dragging of the damaged leg, the sound muted yet somehow clear over the amalgam of other sounds.
Water dripped from its—her—bedraggled clothes.
Her head and narrow drooped shoulders remained in shadow, outside the dim circle of light cast by the overhead lightbulb, but the ends of tangled and matted hair could be seen hanging stiffly against her chest. Over a soaked tattered blouse, she wore a colour-drained shawl that hung over her shoulders to wrap loosely round her elbows. One hand was grey, almost white, and it was bloated, as if it had been a long time in water. The other hand was different: it was clutched tight against her chest and it was inverted, the fingers turned inwards, like twisted claws, and so thin they looked skeletal; the wrist was also misshapen, the flesh withered and creased, disappearing beneath a ragged sleeve, suggesting the deformity included the rest of the forearm.
The shadowy figure steadily advanced on Pyke, whose stillness continued; he seemed stricken by the sight of her. But as she drew near he took a faltering step backwards. For some reason, he glanced at Gabe, perhaps to reassure himself that the other man was seeing the same as he. Pyke suddenly looked every day of his seventy-five years.
The world around Gabe seemed to recede, and with it the cacophony of noises—the constant churning of the swollen river below, the muffled rumble of the storm above, the heavy pounding of feet descending the cellar steps—all these diminished to a background susurration as he stared at the hideous walking corpse that came towards Pyke.
Who took another uncertain step backwards.
But the thing that had once been a living being moved closer, closer until there was only a short space between it and the tall man.
And her face and shoulders came into the light.
Pyke screamed—an unnaturally high sound for a man of his size—as he looked into the grey, bloated face before him.
The swollen flesh was corrupted in parts, the lips gone as if eaten away by tiny parasites, so that long, gumless teeth were exposed in a frightening rictus grin. The temple and cheekbone on one side looked as if they had been crushed by something heavy and hard, and the top of her head was grotesquely dented as if the skull beneath her hair had caved in. The eyes were lidless as if the thin layers of shielding skin had also been nibbled away, and they peered hugely from the skull and what was left of the puffy and ruptured flesh of the face. They gaped lifelessly at Pyke, who again stepped backwards in shock.