Catacombs of Terror! by Stanley Donwood

numbly.
    “You’re coming with me. You can borrow a flashlight and everything. See how generous I am? And you can have this, too.” I passed him one of the little coke wraps. He walked over to the desk, emptied it out, and hoovered it up in one go. He inhaled again, deeply. He turned to me. His eyes were shining.
    “I’ll do it,” he said.

Chapter 14
Where’s My Flashlight?
    There was something I thought I might need. And I remembered someone who might be able to help me out. I didn’t have a number for her, but I could recall where she lived. It turned out that Stonehenge had a car, so I told him to get it. He was back inside ten minutes. I told him to take us up to the suburbs on the northern slopes of the city. An acquaintance of mine had a big house up there. She was a commodities trader or something. Whatever. She pulled in a lot of dough. But I had something on her. Ancient history, but it’s good to keep a mental record of favours owed.
    Stonehenge kept the engine running while I rang the bell. She was at home. She was surprised to see me. Not pleasantly surprised, but I persuaded her to let me in out of the rain. She was having some kind of dinner party or something, so we had to talk in the hallway. It was a nice hallway. Big. Elegant. I fitted right in. Oh, for sure.
    We had a whispered conversation. She whispered furiously, which I didn’t know was possible. Not as furiously as she managed it, anyway. I kept calm. I said that I didn’t have a lot of time. I said I’d explain later. I said she didn’t have to be involved, or connected. I said a few other things. I don’t remember what. Anyway, it must have worked, because I was ushered out four minutes later with a pistol in my pocket. She slammed the door as we drove off. I hoped her dinner party was a success.
    Stonehenge took us further up the hill, then down a lane to Charlcombe. I checked out the gun. Okay. It was a gun, and it had some bullets in it.
    â€œWhat the hell is that?” squeaked Kafka. I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t bother saying anything. I couldn’t think of many words that wouldn’t sound stupid. Stonehenge dropped us off at the bottom of a little track leading up to the church. We got out of the car.
    â€œI’m not sure of the wisdom of this,” said Stonehenge. “But there’s no time to worry. Be extremely careful,” he said, “and don’t use your torches until you get down into the hole. I don’t know what you’ll find down there. What’s your mobile phone number?”
    I gave it to him.
    â€œI’ll telephone you at eight tomorrow morning. If you don’t answer I’ll call again at nine A.M . And again at ten A.M . If you don’t answer any of these calls, I shall assume that I won’t be seeing you again. Ever. If you find yourself in a tight spot, on no account mention Barry or myself. On no account. Understand?”
    I nodded. He nodded back. He pulled the door closed after us, quietly. He wound down his window. “Good luck,” he said. And he drove away.
    I led Kafka along the lane for fifty yards or so, until we reached a gap in the hedge. The dig would be somewhere below us. I couldn’t see it yet, but I knew it was there. We left the lane and picked our way through the wet grass. Colin was complaining about the rain. That was okay. The weather was the least of my worries. I saw the tarpaulins that covered the dig a little further down into the valley. It was a very still night. No breeze at all. Only the continual whisper of the rain and, I thought, the beating of my heart. I think I was scared. It was getting cold. I guessed it was what, midnight? Or later. It was the witching hour. Thirteen o’clock, and I was going to climb down a sixty-foot deep hole that led to the underground domain of a cabal of power-crazed lunatics who figured they were about to control the world. It wasn’t smart, what I was