The Trusted Man’s fingers found something. Slimy stone and metal. Panting, he rubbed his fingertips on it. A small window with metal bars. The stone was damp and warm to the touch.
His eyes had turned into burning embers. But the stone was damp. He needed water to rinse his eyes before the quicklime damaged the corneas and left him blind. He would make do with the few drops oozing from the stone.
He knelt below the window. He wiped his hands on his ski suit, resisting the impulse to rub his eyelids. His eyes were hurting a lot. It could have been worse, he thought, if the quicklime had hit him right in the middle of his eyes. But luckily, that had not happened. Plus, he was real. He could feel the pain but would not be overwhelmed by it. And death was reserved for illusions.
Only a small amount of the handful of quicklime Marlene had thrown had ended up in his eyes. Much more of it was on his face. His face was burning, too, because of the sweat, but fortunately not as much as his eyes. He might end up scarred, and that could be a problem in the future. A disfigured man attracts attention. But he would deal with that in due course.
Once he had finished wiping his hands on the wind-resistant fabric, he pressed them against the cellar wall, wet them, and put them on his eyelids. He forced himself to keep his eyes open. The pain was excruciating. He pulled his hands away, cursed, spat on the floor, took deep breaths. He calmed down. He rubbed his fingers again and laid them on his face, determined this time to withstand the pain. He repeated the procedure three more times, then tried looking around.
The world was shrouded in white mist but he could still see. Not enough, though. He put his hands on his eyes and rubbed, then did so again. The haze cleared, enough to allow him to get back into action. He took a flick-knife out of his pocket, pressed the button and heard the familiar mechanical click. Twenty centimetres of Swedish steel. A good blade.
There was a terrible stench of pigs. The window was square, sixty centimetres by sixty. With a little push, he would be able to use it as a way out. He beat on the frame with the blade of the flick-knife. It was sturdy, but he did not lose heart. Clicking his tongue, he wedged the point of the blade between the metal and the mortar, trying to lever it out. The metal was solid, but the mortar was old and yielded.
He sat down Native American–style and began scraping patiently. Every so often, he would use the flick-knife as a lever.
The grille began to give way in several places. This almost made him forget the pain in his eyes. His left eye in particular worried him. It was certainly damaged.
As the window was about to yield, he thought he heard a wheezing sound.
A voice saying, “Sweet Lissy. Little Lissy.”