PALM SUNDAY
Two miles farther, the tunnel opened out into an enormous switching cavern. The constant light of the service tunnel gave way to a steadily pulsing emergency light. Jordan saw two sets of rails cross, then disappear into black tunnel mouths on the opposite side. He was debating the next step when he saw headlights flickering in the continuation of the service tunnel. That made up his mind. Rescuers were coming from the English side. He jumped out and moved swiftly into the concealing shadows in the vast cavern.
He’d wait for the rescuers to pass and continue on foot, that way he could move faster and go down any of the three tunnels, leaving his pursuer to guess. He worked his way mostly by feel to the far left wall. Each time the light strobed on he’d map out the next few steps in his mind. He had just reached the wall when three trucks burst into the tunnel. They were moving fast. The first two were outfitted to fight fires; the last looked like an ambulance. As the ambulance passed with a last rush of air Jordan heard a sound from the France-bound tunnel mouth behind him and turned just as the Afghan leaped. It wasn’t Qhaywaan. Jordan just had time to turn his shoulder so the knife slid past his ear and struck the cement wall with a spark and a bright clang. He was knocked down but rolled to free himself and scrambled back to his feet. He kicked at the Afghan’s knife hand and was awarded a grunt of pain and the sound of the blade skittering over the floor. He ran, hand against the wall in case he tripped. Looking back he saw his attacker frozen on the ground, searching for the knife in one flash, standing in the next and chasing him again in the next. He was younger and faster. And he had the knife. With each burst of light Jordan scanned the cavern for an answer, a door, a weapon. Then he saw something, maybe fifty yards down. There was some kind of tool on the wall, like a long tire iron with a socket on one end. Ignoring the fire in his side and his ragged breathing, he ran faster. He tore the iron off its mount and turned right, out toward the middle of the cavern. The Afghan followed close. Jordan could hear his breathing. He tried to move in a different direction each time the light went out.
The adversaries circled each other in a strange little hopping dance. Each vying for positional advantage.
The Afghan lunged in the dark, missing by inches. Jordan brought the iron bar down with all his force. He hit something. The man groaned and when the light came on Jordan saw him on one knee clutching his shoulder. He swung again but missed in the dark. Jordan tripped on the train track and fell sprawling across the other man. He frantically rolled clear as the light came on freezing the blade in midarc. In the darkness he heard it strike cement just next to his ear. He swung the bar, feeling once again solid contact. The illuminated Afghan was bleeding profusely from his temple and seemed stunned. Jordan stood and when the light came on again he took aim and swung with all the fury and fear and rage in his body.
There was a sickening moist cracking sound and he felt his weapon shatter something brittle only to expend the rest of its force sinking into something more yielding underneath. The entire right side of the man’s face seemed to have collapsed, giving him a surprised expression. He wasn’t moving. Jordan swung again. He struck somewhere near the shoulder and something snapped underneath the skin and muscle. Somehow every blow seemed to stoke Jordan’s anger. He swung again and again, the exertion making him cry out with each blow. He saw the damage he was inflicting as a series of snapshots in the strobing light. His hands and arms were soaked in red and the Afghan’s head was an unrecognizable mess of blood, bone fragments and tissue.
And then it was over. Jordan felt the passion suddenly drain completely out of him. His sweat-soaked body felt cold and all of his muscles were spent. He let the bar drop with a clatter to the floor. His chest heaved and breath came out in ragged gasps. Tears streamed unnoticed down his face. He had to keep going. There was still another pursuer out there. He picked up the knife and stuck it gingerly in his back pocket.
He chose the left tunnel and started to run. His legs felt like deadweight but he forced himself to keep moving. The only light came from dim fixtures on the wall every fifty yards or so. He ran on the relatively flat space to the left of the track. His shoes echoed loudly. He couldn’t plan ahead; he had no idea what he’d do when he reached the tunnel mouth. He’d figure it out when he got there. Then he heard a bloodcurdling scream from behind him. Sorrow and rage in equal parts. Grief and bloodlust. Qhaywaan had found his companion. Jordan froze and leaned against the wall, breathing as quietly as he could manage. A minute later he heard a yell like the baying of a dog on a scent and footsteps coming hard down the tunnel. Fuck. How had he known which one? In the quiet he heard a thick drop of the dead man’s blood splatter on the ground. Of course. He’d left a fucking map.
He ran. It was too hard; he was too exhausted. He wasn’t going to make it. Nowhere to hide. Then there was a ladder, really just rungs set into the wall leading to a hole just big enough to squeeze into. He climbed. He went in headfirst, no way to turn around. If he was caught up here he’d have no way to protect himself. He pulled himself several feet into the black shaft. He was sure he couldn’t be seen from below and hopefully it was too dark in the tunnel for the blood to give him away.
He lay still, listening to his heart beat. The slap of feet on cement echoed down the shaft, close now, heavy, even breathing right below him. Then there was something else, a vibration, a distant rumble. Air started to stir around his ears. Then a stiff breeze blowing from his feet past his head. The rumble grew louder. His ears popped. Then he understood. He was in one of the pressure relief ducts. It must run all the way to the other track. When the trains came through at high speeds it gave the air somewhere to go. He inched forward. The duct sloped gently up. The noise grew louder and the wind was now rushing past him. Then the train was hurtling by just behind him with an angry suddenness and the walls seemed to shake and the roar of the wind through the duct was deafening. And then, just as suddenly, it was over and the train was receding and a light breeze was pulling back the other way, drawing fresh air that smelled faintly of the sea past his face.
He had to keep going forward. His ears strained in the darkness. If he let his imagination go he could almost feel Qhaywaan crawling up the shaft behind him. Fighting down the panic he used his elbows and the bent tips of his toes to worm his way through the narrow enclosure. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. A clew of worms, a slither of snakes, a bed of eels. After running flat for a while the shaft pitched down as he inched his way forward. Then, like a newborn coming into the world, he finally squeezed out of the pressure duct on the southbound side. The tunnel was quiet, several miles south rescuers were putting out the fire. They would find Maman’s body, so badly burned her true cause of death would never be known. He walked on along the track and after what seemed like only a few minutes he saw a gray light up ahead. Twenty minutes later he walked out of the tunnel mouth. The sun was just rising in Folkestone. It was Palm Sunday.