minutes. And it couldn’t have been more than a minute since he had taken the plunge. Don’t give in! Just keep moving…
By now he must be ten or fifteen metres under the cellar floor. He reached out and whimpered as his knuckles struck brick. A few precious bubbles of air escaped between his lips and chased up his body, past his flailing legs. At first he thought he had come to a dead end. He opened his eyes for a split second. It made no difference at all. Open or closed, there was nothing to see: he was in pitch darkness. His heart seemed to stop beating. In that moment, Alex experienced what it would be like to die.
But then his other hand felt the curve of the wall and he realized that at last the well shaft was bending. He had reached the bottom of an elongated J and somehow he had to get round the turn. Perhaps this was where it finally joined the canal. As it twisted, it tightened. As if the swirling water wasn’t enough, Alex felt the brickwork close in on him, scratching his legs and chest. He knew he had very little air left. His lungs were straining and there was a giddy emptiness in his head. He was about to slide into unconsciousness. Well, that would come as a blessing. Maybe he would never feel the water rushing into his mouth and down his throat.
Maybe he would be asleep before the end.
He turned the corner. His hands hit something—bars of some sort—and he was able to pull his legs round. Only then did he discover that his worst fears had been realized. He had come to the end of the well shaft but there was a metal barrier, a circular gate. He was holding it. There was no way out.
Perhaps it was the sense of having come so far, of being cheated at the end, that gave him strength. Alex pushed and the metal hinges, weakened by the rust of three hundred years, shattered. The gate opened. Alex swam through. His shoulders came clear and he knew that there was nothing above him except water. He kicked out and felt the broken edge of the gate cut into his thigh. But there was no pain. Just a surge of desperation, a need for this to be over.
He was facing up. He could see nothing but he trusted to his natural buoyancy to take him the right way. He felt bubbles tickling his cheeks and eyelids and knew that, without wanting to, he was releasing the last of his breath. How far down had he gone? Did he have enough air left to reach the surface? He kicked as hard as he could, scrabbling with his hands—doing the crawl, only vertically. Once again he opened his eyes, hoping to see light … moonlight, lanterns … anything. And maybe there was a glimmer, a white ribbon flickering across his vision.
Alex screamed. Bubbles exploded from his lips. And then the scream itself erupted as he broke through the surface into the dawn light. For a moment his arms and shoulders were clear of the water and he took a huge gulp of air, then fell back. Water splashed all around him. Lying on his back, cushioned by the water, he breathed again. Rivulets of water streamed down his face. Alex knew they were mixed with tears.
He looked around him.
He guessed it was about six o’clock in the morning. The siren was still sounding but there was nobody about.
And that was just as well. Alex was floating in the middle of the Grand Canal. He could see the Bridge of the Academy, a vague shape in the half-light. The moon was still in the sky, but the sun was already stealing up behind the silent churches and palaces, casting a faint light across the lagoon.
Alex was so cold that he could no longer feel anything. He was aware only of the deathly grip of the canal, trying to drag him down. With the last of his strength he swam across to a flight of uneven stone steps on the far side of the Grand Canal, away from the Widow’s Palace. Whatever happened, he never wanted to go near that place again.
He was naked from the waist up. He had lost his sandals and his trousers were in tatters. Blood was running down one leg, mingling with the filthy canal water. He was soaked. He had no money and his hotel was a train ride away, outside Venice. But Alex didn’t care. He was alive.
He took one look back. There was the palace, dark and silent. The party had long ago come to an end.
Slowly he limped away.
THOUGHTS ON A TRAIN
« ^ »
Tom Harris sat back in the second-class carriage of the pendolino—the fast train from Venice to Naples—and looked out of the window as the buildings and fields slipped by. He was thinking about Alex Rider.
Alex’s absence had, of course, been noticed the night before. Mr Grey had assumed he was late getting back to the hotel, but when his bed was still empty at half past ten, the alarm buttons had been pressed. Mr Grey had alerted the police and then telephoned Alex’s guardian—an American woman called Jack Starbright—in London. Everyone at Brookland knew that Alex had no parents; it was one of the many things that made him different. It was Jack who had calmed the situation down.
“You know what Alex is like. Sometimes he lets his curiosity get the better of him. I’m glad you called, but I’m sure he’ll show up. You really don’t need to worry.”
But Tom was worried. He had seen Alex swallowed up by the crowd at the Widow’s Palace and knew it was something more than curiosity that had led his friend there. He didn’t know what to do. Part of him wanted to tell Mr Grey what the two of them had done. Alex might still be in the palace. He might need help. But another part of him was afraid of getting into trouble … and perhaps getting Alex into even more trouble than he was in already. In the end he decided to keep silent. They were leaving the hotel at half past ten the next morning. If by that time there was still no news from Alex, he would come forward and tell them where he was.
In fact, Alex rang the hotel at half past seven. He was, he said, on his way to England. He had got homesick and had decided to leave early. Mr Grey took the call.
“Alex,” he said. “I can’t believe you’ve done this. I’m meant to be responsible for you. When I brought you on this trip, I trusted you. You’ve completely let me down.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Alex sounded wretched and that was how he felt.
“That’s not good enough. Because of you, I may not be allowed to take other kids on future trips. You’re spoiling it for everyone.”
“I didn’t mean this to happen,” Alex said. “There are things you don’t understand. When I see you next term, I’ll try to explain it to you … as much as I can. I really am sorry, sir. And I’m grateful to you for the way you’ve helped me this summer. But you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be all right.” There were a lot of things Mr Grey wanted to say but he stopped himself. He had got to know Alex well in all their hours together and liked him. He also knew that Alex was like no other boy he’d ever met. He didn’t believe for a minute that Alex was homesick. Nor did he think he was on his way back to England. But sometimes, just occasionally, it was better not to ask.
