CHAPTER TWELVE

 

 

HE JERKED AWAKE again.

Slowly, he became aware of a low, keening sound, like the moaning of an animal in torment, before realising that the noise was emanating from his own throat. He silenced himself abruptly, feeling suddenly embarrassed—which, when he considered it, was ridiculous.

Around him, he could hear only the thrumming of the rain in the street above, and the ominous sloshing of water all around him.

He had no idea how long he’d been out this time, but it must have been some hours—the water level had risen, now swirling around his waist. He drew a breath and shivered. His teeth were chattering, mouth hurting where his torn lips had healed, and split again, spilling warm blood down his chin.

The rats would return soon, attracted by the stink of blood. Their hungry mouths would begin to nibble and he’d barely feel it, so numbed his lower body had become from the cold.

He was close to death now; could feel it hovering over him, like a chill spectre, waiting to embrace him. He imagined a human skeleton with a broad, grinning visage, arms outstretched and welcoming, promising warmth and comfort and shelter from the pain. He wished it would get a move on. He was ready now.

He felt pathetic, drained of all vitality. He’d long ago lost the will to fight. He could hardly believe that this was what his life had come to—that he’d fallen so low, that his world had been reduced to the tunnel, the water, the pain.

He’d prided himself on being a powerful man—the sort of person who could get things done, who commanded respect. The kind of man people looked up to. Now, his true nature had been exposed, revealing the imposter who had always lurked within. Here, in the tunnel, all his money and influence counted for nothing. In the tunnel, he was just like anyone else, just as scared, just as useless.

And then the thought came like a flicker in the darkness: maybe he even deserved what was happening to him. He’d hardly lived a life of charity, if he were honest with himself. He’d coveted power, screwed people over on his way up the ladder, accumulated wealth while those around him suffered. Was this God’s way of declaring his disapproval, of showing him the error of his ways? Perhaps this was payment for a life lived in error. Perhaps this was what became of men like him.

He realised he was getting delirious. He had a keen sense of it, as if he’d somehow managed to step outside of his body and peer down on the half-dead wretch chained to the tunnel wall, could see the mad glimmer in his own eyes, the willingness to fracture, to give in. Yet there was nothing he could do to hold that creeping madness in abeyance. It wanted out. It wanted to assume command, to help him to forget the pain and suffering, to forgo reason. It promised salvation and relief. It promised to hasten the end. And so he closed his eyes and he allowed it in.

There was little time left. The rhythmic dripping of the rainwater continued to count away the remaining seconds of his life. He took some comfort in that. At least he wouldn’t feel so alone as he slipped into oblivion.