But Curtis had spent eight years in the army, fighting people who fought back, and he knew what would happen to Daniel if he lost, and, most of all, he was in a cold killing rage. He struck and struck again, disregarding the blows landed on him and the pain of his own fist, and watched blood spray from Holt’s hate-filled mouth as an uppercut sent his head back.
Holt slipped and landed on his tailbone. Curtis took a step forward, drawing back his leg to kick his opponent’s head like a rugby ball, and almost turned his ankle on an unseen dip in the ground. He staggered but retained his balance.
Holt scrabbled desperately backwards, to his coat on the rock, delved into it and produced a knife.
Curtis threw back his head and laughed, the sound booming off the cave walls. It was so perfectly, utterly comical. He hoped Daniel was watching, he’d find it hilarious. Holt regained his feet, waving the blade, and Curtis wanted to ask, did he not see the irony, after all his fine words about English superiority, pulling what he would have been the first to call a dago trick.
Holt lunged at him with the knife. Curtis threw up his right arm, and the blade slid through cloth and burned on his skin, but that meant it was nowhere near Curtis’s left as he snapped a blow into Holt’s jaw, just where he’d placed the uppercut. He saw the jarring punch cloud Holt’s eyes, and as it did, Curtis grabbed Holt’s knife hand with his own left. He twisted himself round the other man, wrapping his brawny right arm around Holt’s neck, and tightened his grip.
Holt choked and struggled. Curtis leaned back, taking his weight, digging his fingers into Holt’s wrist till the knife fell. He took Holt’s jaw with his freed hand, and twisted head against neck, until he felt the abrupt give and heard the crack.
He let go, and turned from the body before it hit the floor.
Daniel was sprawled by the rock, staring at him, eyes impossibly wide and dark. He looked terrified.
“Holt’s dead now,” Curtis tried to explain, in case that wasn’t clear. The words still wouldn’t come out properly, so he retrieved Holt’s knife, a razor-edged thing better than his own pocketknife, and sliced through the binding rope with a couple of cuts.
Daniel tried to struggle away from the rock. Curtis knelt, helping him disentangle the ropes. They were both shaking.
Daniel was cold. That was it.
Curtis went back to Holt’s corpse and stripped it to its drawers, fingers fumbling. He piled the mostly dry clothes on top of the body, for lack of anywhere else, and went to get Daniel’s clothes off.
He wasn’t much help. His hands would hurt, Curtis thought, noting the raw red marks round his wrists and the grey, puffy look to his fingers, so he carefully peeled off the sodden evening jacket and waistcoat, then ripped open Daniel’s wet shirt rather than bothering with the studs—that reminded him of something, but he wasn’t sure what. Piece by piece, he stripped the soaking, shuddering man naked, and used Holt’s undershirt to towel him as dry as he could, and then, with his hands on Daniel’s cold, damp skin, that was when Curtis came back to himself.
He took a deep, sucking breath. “Jesus.” His voice was hoarse.
“Curtis?” It was a whisper. Daniel’s eyes were huge and fearful.
“God.” He blinked away the remnants of the rage. “Hell. I, uh…”
Daniel tried to say something, and swayed and almost fell, and Curtis seized him and held him close, disregarding his nakedness, till the other man regained his balance and he could let go. He grabbed for Holt’s clothes, fumbling each garment onto Daniel with fingers that felt like sausages but still worked better than the other man’s. The sight of Daniel’s hands without their quick deftness threatened to tip him back to fury.
Holt’s clothes were too big, of course, but that was better than the alternative. He belted the trousers tightly round the slim waist, buttoned the Norfolk jacket and heavy overcoat. Holt’s shoes were far too large; Daniel’s own wet dress shoes would have to do, but he pocketed Holt’s socks till they could find a place to dry his feet.
He picked up Daniel’s discarded clothes, and threw them down the sinkhole, followed by the rope and Holt’s shoes. He kept the knife. Last of all, he dragged the corpse over to the sinkhole.
Daniel made a noise in his throat. Curtis said, “Shut your eyes,” because he was quite sure Daniel didn’t need to see a body disappear into that dreadful well, and dropped Holt down into the dark.
Then he took Daniel out of the cave.
They had to pause at the entrance, for Curtis to replace the lanterns, and to find a dry rock where Daniel could sit, slumped forward, while Curtis carefully dried his feet with his handkerchief and fitted Holt’s thick socks on.
Holt had arrived on a bicycle. It was a decent touring bike, but with no grip in his right hand and Daniel at best semiconscious, it was useless to him. Curtis considered the matter, then told Daniel, “Wait for me. I’ll be back,” and hauled the thing into the caves. The idea of throwing it down the sinkhole, on top of the body, seemed wrong, but he had no other choice, so he dropped it in.