The Ghosts of N-Space - Barry Letts [53]
very near now and she pressed herself against the cold hard stone, wishing that she could still vanish through it.
At last, her pursuer appeared, short, stocky and bullet-headed. Oh God, it was Pimple-face!
She must have made a sound, for he swung round and with a cry of triumph pounced on her and dragged her by the wrist into the light of the window.
‘Tread – on – my – toe, would you?’ Each word was accompanied by a vicious punch on the arm. Unfortunately it was the arm which had been so badly bruised.
‘Yes. I’m sorry,’ she gasped through her pain and tried to pull away, only to have him grab her by the other wrist as well and haul her towards him until their noses were almost touching. His stinking breath made her turn her head away, but he let go her wrist and seized her chin, twisting her face towards him and squeezing her cheeks until she almost screamed…
‘A pox on your “sorry”!’ he said, letting go to deal her a short jab to the solar plexus which left her winded and nearly helpless.
Frantically scrabbling at her side, she managed to find the hilt of the dagger and desperately tried to pull it from its scabbard. Another blow, a backhander across her face knocked her flying across the lobby to strike herself a cruel blow on the stone pillar behind her.
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He made to follow her, but suddenly there was a third figure present. It was the long-lost Guido – and he had his arm round Pimple-face’s neck, yanking him back so hard that his feet left the floor.
Throwing him down so that he collapsed in a scared heap on the mosaic floor, Guido stood over him, ready to grab him again if he showed fight. But he knew when he was outclassed. Scrambling to his feet, he backed away towards the corridor he’d come from. He turned a last snarl on Sarah, hissing, ‘You wait till tonight!’ Guido made for him and he turned and fled, helped on his way by the man’s boot.
‘Are you all right, lad?’
‘Thank you, yes,’ she answered manfully in spite of the new crop of hurts. ‘But I don’t think I should have been if you hadn’t turned up.’
He noticed her hand still on the hilt of her dagger. ‘He’s not worth a stretched neck,’ he said with a smile and turned to go up the spiral stairs.
If it had not been for the fiend, it would have been a tediously long job, if not downright impossible, to free the solid wooden gate (getting on for a foot thick) that closed the only way in through the outer wall.
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Having cleared away two hundred years’ worth of debris from the base, and dolloped about a pint of Umberto’s best olive oil onto the ornate hinges, they were all vainly pulling on a rope attached to the heavy ring handle of the latch, like a tug-of‐war team at a village fete.
The Brigadier was anchor man, with the end of the rope wrapped round his back so that he could use all his weight, and the others (bar Umberto, who had been detailed off to make some sandwiches) were strung out in front of him in a rough order of body size and strength.
Jeremy was doing his best not to feel fed up. After all, he had won his spurs, hadn’t he? (Though what spurs had to do with it…) He’d shown everybody that he wasn’t a wimp or a wally. Yet the Brig hadn’t actually said anything, even though he’d patted him on the back in a sort of a well-done sort of way; and Maggie, in spite of what she’d said on the boat, seemed more interested in the attentions of old man Mario and the horrible Roberto and his soupy voice.
‘Once more,’ called the Brigadier. ‘One, two, three, heave!’ It was as they were all obediently heaving that he saw it, lolloping towards them from the pile of stones which was all you could see of the collapsed wall at the rear of the compound.
It was only a small fiend compated with the others. In fact, he thought at first that it was a dog; it was only when it 189
got near enough for him to see that it had six legs – or was it eight? – and a face like a furry duck, that he realized what he was looking at.
‘One, two, three –’
‘Look out!’ yelled Jeremy, letting go and pointing.