Ring. Sister. Piano (Book 4 of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Thirty One: Robin Crake's Penultimate Resting Place

Ellini raised her lantern and climbed the stairs. They creaked almost as much as the grand staircase at the Faculty, but she hadn't been counting on the element of surprise anyway. Now she came to think of it, she wasn't sure what she had been counting on.

She hadn't even reached the top of the staircase when Matthi called her name. There was no urgency to the cry – more a kind of grim, eye-rolling acceptance, as if she had tripped over Robin's dead body and spoiled her favourite coat. Still, Ellini hurried. She wondered, as she hurtled out of the door, struggled through damp firs, and tripped over a flower-pot, whether she was hurrying because she was concerned for Robin, or concerned to leave Matthi for too long in his company.

She reached the glow of Matthi's lantern – with Matthi standing behind it, tapping her foot. She was beside a low, brick-lined opening, almost like an oven, set into the high bank of earth at the back of the house. A pair of boots were sticking out of the opening – expensive, elegant boots, though they were caked with mud. She recognized them instantly.

"Is he alive?" she said, trying to catch her breath.

"You think I'm going to go near 'im to check?" Matthi retorted.

Ellini knelt down by the opening. She didn't want to pull him out in case he was injured – or in case only half of him emerged. She dragged the lantern with her and crawled in on her elbows, scraping her skin raw.

It seemed to be an ice-house. She could see her breath steaming ahead of her. The lantern-light shone off slick slabs of ice. And Robin was... well, he was whole. There was blood on him. His well-cut trousers were torn. But he was moving and muttering. She would have called the movement a kind of sluggish writhing, although it had probably been more frantic before. She could see finger-nail scratches in the packed earth above his head.

"Robin?" she said, wriggling to a halt and leaning on the lantern. "Can you hear me?"

His neck was cut in several places, but not too deep, and in a surprisingly regular fashion...

Oh. Like the notches. He'd made new notches.

She couldn't make out what he was saying. It was all breathing in, and very little breathing out – a series of gasps that he'd wrapped his tongue around to make some rough approximation of speech. She thought she heard the word 'name' a few times: "No name – what name – please name" – but that was it.

And then he focused on her, and something seemed to snap into place. He was lucid enough to say, through dark lips and rattling teeth, "What think? What think, Ellie? Thisiswhere... sh'kept me on ice f'five years – five years? Three? While sh'looking for a way to resurrect me. S'as warm and comforting as her arms, believe me. They should put a plaque. Robin Crake's pen-penultimate resting place."

"Are you injured?" said Ellini. But his eyes wandered off and the lucidity slipped away. It was like when the conjuror whips away a table-cloth, leaving the glasses still standing. In essence, nothing had changed, except that everything was on a different foundation.

"Sarah Alexander," he said, in the old, gasping tone. "Scottish. Scottish screams. Never knew y'could scream inana – inanaccent. Thought it was the great leveller. Tower of Babel. Sarah Alexander, Scottish. Green ribbons – greenibbons in ha- ha hair."

"Just relax, Robin," she said, putting a steadying hand on his arm. It was like touching one of the slabs of ice. Even through his jacket and shirt, she could feel the chill. "We'll get you out."

The awareness was back, sudden as a snake's tongue. He reached up and grabbed her wrist. "We? Not him?"

"No," said Ellini, marvelling that she could tell, from that one, delirious pronoun, who he was talking about.