Page 147 of Babel

‘Ah, damn it.’ Griffin rummaged around in his bag and pulled out a large pair of shears. ‘I’m cutting through, hold still.’ Robin felt an agonizing, intense pressure – and then nothing. His hands sprang free – still cuffed, but no longer bolted together.

The pain vanished. He sagged from the reprieve. ‘I thought you were in Glasgow.’

‘I was fifty miles out when I got word. Then I jumped out, waited, and hopped onto the first train I could coming back.’

‘Got word?’

‘We have our ways.’ Robin noticed then that Griffin’s right hand shone mottled pale, red, and angry. It looked like a burn scar. ‘Anthony didn’t elaborate, he only sent an emergency signal, but I reckoned it was bad. Then all the rumours from the tower said they’d hauled you lot here, so I skipped the Old Library – would have been dangerous, regardless – and came here. Good bet. Where is Anthony?’

‘He’s dead,’ said Robin.

‘I see.’ Something rippled across Griffin’s face, but he blinked, and his features resumed their calm. ‘And the rest—?’

‘I think they’re all dead.’ Robin felt wretched; he could not meet Griffin’s eyes. ‘Cathy, Vimal, Ilse – everyone in the house – I didn’t see them fall, but I heard the shooting, and then I didn’t see them again.’

‘No other survivors?’

‘There’s Victoire. I know they brought Victoire, but—’

‘Where is she?’

‘I don’t know,’ Robin said miserably. She could be lying dead in her cell. They could have already dragged her body outside, dumped it in a shallow grave. He couldn’t speak the words to explain; that would shatter him.

‘Then let’s look.’ Griffin grabbed his shoulders and gave him a hard shake. ‘Your legs are fine, aren’t they? Come, get up.’

The hallway was miraculously empty. Robin glanced left and right, baffled. ‘Where are all the guards?’

‘Got rid of them.’ Griffin tapped another bar in his belt. ‘A daisy-chain riff on the word explode. The Latin explodere is a theatre term – it refers to driving an actor off the stage by clapping one’s hands. From there we get the Old English meaning “to reject or drive away with loud noise”. It’s not until the modern English that we get a detonation.’ He looked very pleased with himself. ‘My Latin’s better than my Chinese.’

‘So that didn’t destroy the door?’

‘No, it only makes a sound so awful it drives all listeners away. I got them all running to the second floor, and then I crept up here and locked the doors behind me.’

‘Then what made that hole?’

‘Just black powder.’ Griffin hauled Robin along. ‘Can’t rely on silver for everything. You scholars always forget that.’

They searched every cell in the hall for Victoire. Most were empty, and Robin felt a growing dread as they moved down the doors. He did not want to look; he did not want to see the blood-streaked floor – or worse, her limp body lying where they’d left it, a bullet wound through her head.

‘Here,’ Griffin called from the end of the hallway. He banged on the door. ‘Wake up, dear.’

Robin nearly collapsed with relief when he heard Victoire’s muffled response. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Can you walk?’ Griffin asked.

This time Victoire’s voice was clearer; she must have approached the door. ‘Yes.’

‘Are you hurt?’

‘No, I’m all right.’ Victoire sounded confused. ‘Robin, is that—?’

‘It’s Griffin. Robin’s here too. Don’t fret, we’re going to get you out.’ Griffin reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like an improvised hand grenade – a ceramic sphere a quarter the size of a cricket ball with a fuse sticking out one end.

It seemed rather small to Robin. ‘Can that blow through iron?’

‘Doesn’t have to. The door’s made of wood.’ Griffin raised his voice. ‘Victoire, get against the far corner and put your head between your arms and knees. Ready?’

Victoire yelled her assent. Griffin placed the grenade at the corner of the door, lit it with a match, and hastily dragged Robin several paces down the hall. The bang came seconds later.