It Happened In Paradise. Nicola Marsh
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as it burned down to his fingers.
The darkness after the brief flare of light seemed, if anything, more intense, thicker, substantial enough to cut into slices and in a moment of panic he groped in the box for another match.
It was empty.
There was a new carton somewhere, but his supplies were stored at the far end of the temple. And the far end of the temple, as he’d just seen, was no more…
‘We’re trapped, aren’t we?’
Her voice had, in that instant of light, lost all that assured bravado.
‘Of course we’re not trapped,’ he snapped back. The last thing he needed was hysterics. ‘I just need a minute to figure the best way out.’
‘There isn’t one. I saw—’
Too late. Her voice was rising in panic and his own clammy moment of fear was still too close to risk her going over the edge and taking him with her.
‘Shut up and let me think.’
She gave a juddering little hiccup as she struggled to obey him, to control herself, but he forced himself to ignore the instinct to reach out, hold her, comfort her.
She’d said she’d been standing on the path, presumably the one leading to the acropolis, but she couldn’t have been alone.
‘How did you get up here?’ His voice was sharper this time, demanding an answer.
‘I told you,’ she said. ‘By bus.’
His head still hurt like hell, but the realisation that he was caught up in the aftermath of an earthquake had done much to concentrate his mind. He’d broken the seal on the bottle of brandy, but the minute the liquor had touched his lips he’d set it down, recognising the stupidity of drinking himself into oblivion.
That was what Rob had done when his yacht had gone down in a storm. Was still doing. Washed up on the beach and pretty much a wreck himself…
‘What kind of bus?’ he demanded. ‘Nobody lives up here.’ The locals avoided the area, ancient folk memory keeping them well away from the place.
‘Not a local bus. I was on a sightseeing trip.’
He grunted.
A sightseeing trip. Of course.
The government was trying attract tourism investment, but Cordillera would be hard pushed to compete with the other established resorts of the Far East unless there was something else, something different to tempt the jaded traveller.
The ruins of a sexed-up ancient civilisation would do as well as anything. And once the finance was fixed, the resorts built, the visitors would flood in.
He hadn’t wanted hordes of tourists trampling about the place disturbing his work. As archaeological director of the site he had the authority to keep them out and he’d used it.
He’d seen the damage that could be done, knew that once there was a market for artefacts, it wouldn’t be long before the locals would forget their fear and start digging up the forest for stuff, chiselling chunks of their history to sell to tourists.
He’d known that sooner or later he would be overruled, but in the meantime he’d kept everything but the bare bones of his discoveries to himself, delaying publication for as long as possible.
Impatient for results he could exploit to his advantage, it seemed that Felipe Dominez had looked for another way.
‘I hadn’t realised that we were already on the tourist route,’ he said bitterly.
‘I don’t think you are,’ she assured him. ‘If a trade delegation whose flight was delayed hadn’t been shanghaied into taking the trip, it would have been me, a couple of dozen other unfortunates who believed that Cordillera was going to be the next big thing and the driver-cum-tour-guide. Why the business people bothered I can’t imagine.’
‘I can,’ he said sourly, ‘if the alternative was the doubtful comforts of the airport departure lounge.’
‘Maybe, but at least there they’d be sure someone was going to try and dig them out of the rubble. Here—’
He didn’t think it wise to let her dwell on what was likely to be her fate ‘here’.
‘What happened to the rest of your party?’ he cut in quickly.
‘It was hot and sticky and I was suffering from a severe case of ancient culture fatigue so I decided to sit out the second half of the tour. When the ground opened up and swallowed me I was on my own.’
‘But you’ll be missed?’
‘Will I?’ Manda asked.
In the panic she knew it was unlikely. Even supposing anyone else had survived. They could easily have suffered the same fate as she had and she was unbelievably lucky not to have been buried beneath tons of debris… Maybe. That would at least have been quick.
Trapped down here, the alternative might prove to be a lot worse, she thought, and dug what was left of her nails into the palms of her hands.
Breathe…
‘I suppose that eventually someone will wonder what happened to me,’ she admitted. ‘Right now, I suspect they’ll all be too busy surviving, Mr Jago, so if you could put your mind to the problem of how we’re going to get out of here I really would be grateful.’ There was a long pause. ‘Please.’
That belated ‘please’ bothered Jago.
His uninvited guest had not, so far, displayed any real inclination to politeness. On the contrary, she’d been full of spit and fire, swiftly recovering from that momentary wobble a few moments ago.
‘Miranda?’
‘Yes?’
About to suggest that under the circumstances they could probably both do with a drink, he changed his mind. In the unlikely event that he managed to find the bottle of brandy in one piece, it might be wiser to hang on to it. Maybe later she would be grateful for the possibility of at least temporary oblivion. Maybe they both would.
Instead he said, ‘Most people just call me Jago.’
There was a small silence. ‘And what does everyone else call you?’ she asked, still fighting a rearguard action against the fear, keeping the edge going.
Soft, sweet words, he thought. All of them lies. ‘Nothing fit for the ears of a lady.’ Then, eager to change the subject, ‘Were you hurt when you fell?’
‘Just a few bruises,’ she said, with a carelessness that suggested she was being economical with the truth. ‘What about you?’
‘Not bad, apart from a pain in my leg where someone kicked me.’ Keeping it sharp was good. She was keeping up a great front so far; kindness might just have her in pieces, which was something he could do without. ‘And a headache which probably has more to do with the large lump on my forehead and less to do with alcohol than I originally supposed. But I’ll probably live.’
‘If we get out of here.’
‘We’ll get out. I just need to get my bearings.’
‘Maybe you should light another match.’
‘I would,’ he replied. Then, since there was no way to save her from reality, ‘Unfortunately that was the last one.’
‘What?’
It took a moment for the disaster to sink in. Despite the devastation revealed in those few moments as the match flame had burned away the darkness, the very promise of light had driven back a little of Manda’s fear. But no more matches meant no more light and all at once the blackness, thick enough to touch, seemed to be pressing against her face, smothering her.
She scrambled to her feet, brushing frantically at her face with her hands as if somehow