I had taken the can of petrol from her and was forcing back the cap. ‘Is Tucek there?’ I called through the door.
‘Yes. He’s here.’
I heard Hilda give a gasp of relief.
‘Get up the ladder to the roof,’ I said sharply. I was afraid she was going to faint. ‘Stand back now,’ I called. ‘I’m sprinkling the door with petrol.’ I had tipped the can up and as the petrol ran out I flicked it with my hand on to the woodwork of the door. I put about half a gallon on and around the door. Then I hauled the can up the ladder and passed it through the gap to Hilda. ‘Are you well back from the door?‘I called.
‘Yes, you can light the bonfire,’ came the answer.
I climbed out on to the roof. ‘Pull the ladder up, will you, Hilda,’ I said. I tipped the can of petrol up, soaking a strip of cloth in the stuff. Then holding one corner of it, I leaned down through the opening, struck a match and lit it. As the handkerchief blazed I tossed it down into the darkness below. There was a whoof of searing flame, a blast of hot blinding air and I flung myself backwards on to the roof of the tower.
‘Are you hurt?’ I felt Hilda’s hands grip my shoulders, lifting me up. I wiped my hand across my face. It smelt of petrol and burned hair. ‘The damned stuff had vapourished,’ I mumbled. My face felt raw and scorched. Flames were licking out of the square hole in the roof. I crawled to the edge of the roof and leaned over the crumbling battlement above the slit. ‘Are you all right down there?’ I shouted. I was scared I’d put too much of the stuff on the door.
It was Hacket who answered. ‘We’re fine, thanks.’ His voice was faint and muffled. ‘Quite a fire you started.’
I stood up then and looked down on the stone roof of the monastery. Half the building had gone already. Beyond lay a flat, black plain of lava slanted gently upwards and thinning out to a dark gash in the mountainside. Above the gash the conical top of Vesuvius belched oil-black smoke shot with red lumps of the molten core of the earth which rose and fell, rose and fell like flaming yoyos in the crater mouth. Higher still, faint streaks of forked lightning cut the billowing underbelly of the cloud that hid the sun and blotted out the light of day. Hilda gripped my hand. She, too, was staring up at the mountain and I saw she was scared. ‘Oh, God! Do you think we shall ever get out?’
‘We’ll get out all right,’ I said, but my assurance sounded false and hollow. The lava seemed to be advancing faster. Already it had obliterated the flower garden where we’d stood and was pouring across the vineyards beyond in a slow, inevitable wave. Another section of the monastery fell with a crash and an up-thrust blast of dust. Soon it would reach the chapel. We must get out before then or …