Sara hesitated, her throat constricted. “Yes, Natasha. I’m sorry.” She gave the girl a brief hug, aware of the inadequacy of the gesture. “I have to go see what’s happening, all right? Don’t move.”
Sara found a loose rock and hefted it. She crept, cat-like, to where the funnel entrance spread out like a ram’s horn into the gallery. How many? She craned her neck to look up into the blackness. Now she heard voices, the scrabbling of feet. She weighed her options. Stay put, or risk the unknown? She turned and looked down the gallery to where the ceiling dipped and turned. Somewhere beyond the temple perimeter lay the remains of something ancient, a barren, haunted place, blighted by God’s curse. And here, hiding as a child in the gallery, she had felt the weight of its mournful presence.
She took a deep breath. Okay. Stay put – flesh and blood I can deal with. A pair of feet landed hard on the sloping floor of the funnel. Sara stepped forward and swung the rock, missing her target’s head but scoring a direct hit between the shoulder blades. As the rock connected she let out her breath in a cry of frustrated anger. The man dropped to the ground with a grunt.
Then two things happened very quickly: something heavy dropped down from the funnel’s twisted tube and wrestled her to the ground. She fought with all her strength, redoubling her efforts as she saw her hands stained with blood and heard the man gasp in pain. She felt a surge of adrenaline. He’s hurt. I can do this… And then, twisting around in a final effort to free herself she saw who it was. Simon?
He froze in her grip, his mouth slack with astonishment. “Sara?” Then, “Where’s Natasha?”
Sara stared at Dracup open-mouthed.
He looks awful.
She bit her lip as Farrell struggled to his feet, reaching behind his neck with a grimace to assess the damage. “Farrell. I’m sorry – I –”
“No problem.” He flashed a smile, then turned to give assistance to the third climber whose legs were dangling, testing the rough steps before committing his weight. A lightly built man dropped down and landed easily on his feet. Farrell jerked his head in Moran’s direction. “DCI Moran, from the UK,” he told Sara.
Dracup was shaking her arm. “Where is she, Sara?”
“She’s waiting over there.” Sara pointed and called over. “’Tash? Come over. It’s all right.”
But the only response was the flat echo of her voice and the silence of the gallery. She ran to the spot where Natasha had been sitting, knees drawn up to her chin, dark eyes alert.
Sara looked at Dracup. It was impossible. She had to be there. “Simon, she was here. I told her to wait. She was scared –”
Dracup was at her side. “Where does this lead?” He swept his hand across the expanse before them.
“I don’t know.” Her head was pounding in a mixed reaction of confusion and anger at herself. “I’ve never – it’s forbidden.” Her heart was beating with fear. Natasha. Why there? Why didn’t you wait? “We can’t follow,” she stammered. “It’s impossible.”
“What are you talking about?” Dracup turned to Moran. “What about your map? Does it show anything in this direction?”
Moran shook his head. “That’s the funny thing. It ends right here. The gallery isn’t marked at all.”
Dracup called her name repeatedly: Natasha! ’Tash! Moran walked alongside, observing, cautious. Sara was behind with Farrell, reluctant. Scared. And he could understand it. There was something about this place, something not right. The ceiling had crept lower and lower until for an uncomfortable five minutes they had been forced to bend almost double; then it rose sharply again, stretching out of sight and creating the illusion that they were no longer travelling underground, but under a remote, lofty sky. The ground became progressively featureless, the curious formations of rock they had passed at the outset being replaced by a plain, dry dust underfoot. The air was still, the temperature warmer than the area surrounding the waterfall and the funnel.
Dracup noted all this subconsciously. His arm throbbed with a dull beat. He concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, all senses alert for a frightened child. His brain transmitted a repetitive mantra in time with his footsteps: She can’t have gone far. He was relieved that their two-abreast formation had defaulted Moran as his travelling companion; he didn’t trust himself to speak to Sara. He didn’t know if he felt anger or disappointment at her betrayal. All the while she had known. She could have warned him. Said something. Anything. And yet, he conceded, she had tried to protect Natasha, or so it seemed.