The Mountain Eagle

By JR Rothwell

Sicily 1928,Mount Etna is in full and venomous eruption as a desperate man frantically searches for a hidden treasure before the deadly lava or the mafia can claim it.
84 years later a struggling, disillusioned, film researcher and his beautiful young assistant set out to solve one of cinemas greatest mysteries,what became of Alfred Hitchcock's iconic missing film, The Mountain Eagle? Their search leads them to a long forgotten,disused London bank vault where they make a horrific discovery. Unseen ruthless forces follow their every move as time begins to run out and their careers,newly found love and their very lives all hang in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JR Rothwell
• Release date: Jul 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476109909

JR Rothwell

FROM ARMY DENTIST TO AUTHOR SHOULD HAVE BEEN AN EASY TRANSITION, HOWEVER I PROCRASTINATED FOR MORE YEARS THAN I'M PREPARED TO ADMIT TO! ANYWAY 3 MONTHS AGO I LISTED MY SECOND NOVEL ON KINDLE SELECT. BIG MISTAKE BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO GIVE THEM EXCLUSIVITY, WHICH MIGHT HAVE BEEN OK IF I'D BEEN AN ESTABLISHED NAME. AS A COMPLETE UNKNOWN I WAS JUST ONE OF THOUSANDS OF WANABEES AND DURING THE 90 DAYS COMMITMENT SOLD 3 COPIES FOR WHICH NO MONEY WAS EVER FORTHCOMING, THOUGH I DID GET A FEW REALLY GOOD REVIEWS. ANYWAY TODAY I HAVE RELAUNCHED ' HITCH ' VIA MY ORIGINAL CHOICE OF PUBLISHER, SMASHWORDS. WE WILL SEE IT MAKES A JOT OF DIFFERENCE. SO MY EXCITING SPECULATION AS TO WHAT BECAME OF ALFRED HITCHCOCKS 'LOST' FILM 'THE MOUNTAIN EAGLE', FROM WHEN HE FILMED IT IN 1926 THROUGH TO THE THRILLING DENOUMENT IN PRESENT DAY LONDON,IS OUT THERE FOR ALL TO READ. IF IT'S YOUR SORT OF READ I'D BE VERY GRATEFUL FOR YOUR FEEDBACK, GOOD OR BAD! MANY THANKS. 'HITCH ' by JR ROTHWELL ( Approx.115,000 words )

Book preview

In 1926 towards the end of the great Silent Era of cinema, Alfred Hitchcock directed his second film, The Mountain Eagle.

No copies of this film exist today, and it has become the Holy Grail of iconic lost films. The Mountain Eagle weaves an intriguing mix of fact and fiction as it speculates what may have happened to the one remaining copy of this film. It begins in November 1928 on the treacherous slopes of Mount Etna, as it bursts into violent eruption. For one man it's a deadly race against time, as Sicilian Mafioso hit men prove to be far more lethal than the volcano. In desperation he flees from Sicily to London carrying a treasure that will put him, and all who he befriends, in mortal danger.

In Spring 2012, Barnaby Codd, a disillusioned loner,working for the British Film Institute Library in London, stumbles across a clue buried in the archives for over 80 years. This will lead him into danger and romance, as he seeks to unravel the mystery of just what became of the priceless, last remaining copy of 'The Mountain Eagle'.

The Mountain Eagle

By

J.R. Rothwell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by J.R. Rothwell

Though this is a work of fiction, I do name some actual deceased people, and a few living, famous names in the film industry; but in no way that could be considered defamatory. The chronology of the early Hitchcock films described is only approximate,

and is not intended to be definitive.

Acknowledgements: Hitchcock by Francois Truffaut (Simon& Schuster 1984)

It's Only a Movie by Charlotte Chandler (Simon & Schuster 2005)

The Life of Alfred Hitchcock, The Dark Side of Genius by Donald Spoto (Collins 1985 )

Imagination means nothing without doing.- Charles Chaplin

Revenge is sweet and not fattening.- Alfred Hitchcock

Always make the audience suffer as much as possible.- Alfred Hitchcock

A glimpse into the world proves that horror is nothing more than reality.

- Alfred Hitchcock

My love and gratitude to Tina for her constructive criticism, support and forbearance.

Table of Contents

Part One

Sicily, November 1928

London, November - December 1928

Part Two

London, Spring 2012

PART ONE

MOUNT ETNA, SICILY: NOVEMBER 2nd 1928

He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the dying rays of the sun. It was late afternoon and already the golden orb had just begun to settle on the horizon. Time was of the essence now, the mountainside was not a good place to be after dark. Carlo had been searching since the early morning and felt sure that the hut had to be there, somewhere close. He estimated that he had another ten minutes at most to find it before darkness would quickly envelope the Sicilian hills. It was steep and treacherous under foot. Brambles and creeper tugged at his feet as he edged down the slope. Then, through the bushes down to the right he caught a glimpse of something solid and dark. A roof, it had to be a roof. He lengthened his stride eager to confirm that he had had found his goal at last. He adjusted the pack over his shoulder and lifted his feet higher to avoid tripping.

A thunderous sound suddenly cut through the silence from high up the mountainside. A deep rumble that started like a distant burst of cannon fire. But it didn’t stop; instead it intensified into a continuous roar and the very ground beneath his feet began to shake. He turned and stared fearfully back up the mountain to seek it’s source. What he saw made him cry out in fear. A huge plume of dense dark smoke billowed into the purple, early evening sky. Beneath the smoke a seething orange yellow mass of molten lava spewed high above the summit. Mount Etna was in full eruption.

Momentarily he hesitated to consider his options. He couldn’t go back up towards the path he came by. It was directly under the towering menace of Mount Etna and its lethal flow of deadly lava. He had caught sight of his goal just as Etna had exploded into life. He knew that if he didn’t continue on down to what he prayed was the cabin he sought, then it and all its contents would be lost forever, buried deep under feet of lava. He turned away from the awesome site towering above him. Already flakes of red hot ash were falling all about him as streaks of white hot gases burst away from the main core. He peered down into the now featureless dark foliage below him. After the bright intensity of Etna’s eruption his eyes could discern nothing. The roof, if it was a roof, had disappeared. He felt a surge of panic rising within him. He stumbled downwards frantic to find what he set out for, yet petrified of being engulfed and incinerated in a sea of molten lava. Suddenly his leading foot was snagged by the foliage, and he knew that he was lost. At first he thought he might retrieve the situation, but his stumble swiftly became a head long plunge and he crashed down the hillside flattening bushes and somersaulting as his momentum gathered pace.

He desperately tried to grasp hold of something substantial that might anchor his terrifying decent, but the saplings and shoots just ripped through his hands as he hurtled downwards. He knew that if he hit a tree head on, he would be dead. He forced his body into a ball and let gravity take its course. A second later he was flying. Bouncing clear of the hillside he plummeted downwards. He screwed his eyes tightly shut and clasped his arms round his head in a futile attempt to protect it from whatever was finally going to halt his perilous fall.

When the end came, it was not pretty, but nor was it fatal. The small stagnant green pond that nestled unobtrusively beneath the hillside was barely large enough to be visible amidst the wild foliage, but it saved him from certain death. He plunged into the slimy dank water sending a huge volume of foetid sludge in all directions. He lay on his back devoid of thought or movement, all life having been hammered out of him with the brutal force of the impact. Helplessly he felt his body begin to turn face down as the sludge sucked him to its bosom. Then there was just blackness and a stench worse than death. Briefly he remained visible, his buttocks and balding pate just breaking the surface, like a basking hippo cocooned in soothing mud. Slowly with a release of trapped air and gases his inert body slid out of sight with a prolonged gurgle. The noxious soup emitted a final flatulent bubble and was then silent, still and undisturbed, as though replete after a gorging a satisfying morsel.

Carlo forced himself to turn onto his side. The thick slimy water threatened to suck him down to oblivion if he didn’t pull himself clear. He wrenched his head upwards and spat out a stream of noxious liquid. The water however ghastly, was cold, and it did clear his head after the trauma of the fall. Slowly he managed to drag himself to the edge of the pool and by grasping the tufts of marsh grass, hauled his saturated body onto the side.

Briefly he lay on his back and peered up at the darkening sky. What he saw filled him with dread. There were no early evening stars against an indigo tapestry, but a dense and billowing ceiling of ash cloud. A deep rumbling from higher up the mountain starkly confirmed that Etna was venting its wrath.

He staggered to his feet and blindly stumbled in what he hoped was the direction of the hut he had briefly glimpsed before his fall.

The light was all but gone and without it his task seemed hopeless. He pushed his way through the dense shrubbery and cursed himself for taking on this fools errand.

Then suddenly the shed loomed out of the darkness and he was within touching distance. He reached out to find the door but found a mass of creeper and foliage had concealed it. Frantically he ripped at the tangled growth in search of a way in.

MASCALI VILLAGE: THE PREVIOUS DAY: NOVEMBER 1st 1928

Carlo Alberto Costa, affectionately known to his friends as Caca, felt at 39 years of age that he was drifting aimlessly towards a mid life of predictable tedium. Having always lived in the small Sicilian fishing village of Mascali on the east of the island, he rarely expected the unusual or anything surprising. He had followed in the family tradition of making and repairing the nets and baskets for the fishing boats all along the coast. Although a healthy outdoor occupation, he craved for something more stimulating. Living beneath the shadow of Mount Etna should have provided enough excitement and uncertainty, but the residents of Mascali accepted it’s presence with much the same resignation as the people of Naples did alongside Vesuvius. Except that Etna was unpredictable. Records suggested it had erupted well over 200 times, dating back to 1500 BC. It was rarely quiet for very long, which is why so many tourists had flocked to see it from all over the world. The daily huffing and puffing of the volcano, accompanied by columns of smoke and glowing ash were not considered worthy of the label, eruptions. The most active volcano in the world, close to human habitation, was saving itself for the main event, which unbeknown to Carlo, was about to happen the following day Friday 2nd November 1928.

There were no sophisticated observation laboratories back then. The only warning that something more significant may be brooding beneath the caldera deep in the bowels of Etna, was a brief spurt of hot ash, in the early morning of the 1st November. It rose some 200 meters above the rim, lighting up the clear dawn sky, only to vanish before the early risers could witness it.

As Carlo threw back the shutters of his small cottage on the fertile slopes above the picturesque village of Mascali, he embraced the warm sun from a cloudless sky. He crossed himself as usual, and cast a glance to his left towards the Valle del Bove, the barren plain high up the mountainside close to Etna’s summit. He always said a brief prayer for his village, his friends, his parrot Bella, and the soul of his dear wife who had passed away two years ago.

On many mornings he had also included the fabled volcano in his prayers, hoping that in some small way any lurking menace may remain dormant and be appeased by his humble offering. Today he made no such prayer. He yawned deeply, scratched himself vigorously beneath each of his hairy armpits and turned back into his bedroom to prepare himself for yet another day of, 'fast' Sicilian life, as he jokingly called it.

His beloved Sophia had died tragically under the wheels of a tourist's hire car that had recklessly sped through the market area in Catania. Since then Carlo had seen little point in making much effort with his personal welfare or appearance. He ate far too much pasta, and drank way too much wine, to help him forget. He stared blearily back at himself as he half halfheartedly combed his thin greasy hair. He no longer tried to disguise his bald spot, which had only appeared after Sophia died. He pulled on the same stained shirt as yesterday and perfunctorily sniffed it to see if it would do for one more day.

He knew that he had given up the fight, he was just going through the motions, each day blurring with the next. Deep inside he wanted to halt this downwards spiral into depression and self pity, but two years on from Sophia's death, he felt just as raw, and had no incentive to change things.

A loud squawk snapped him out of his maudlin reverie. Bella wanted her breakfast and reminded him that his life was not entirely empty. They had got the Red and Yellow Macaw from a street peddler in Taormina, two months before Sophia was killed. The parrots’ vagrant owner had clearly neglected her and it was only on a whim that Carlo and Sophia had 'adopted' her. The shifty owner had sidled up to them as they passed, and said, You like pretty birdie signorina?, and before she could reply, the thin bedraggled parrot had hopped onto Sophia's shoulder and ducked and weaved its ruffled head next to her ear, whilst making little chirruping noises and gently nibbled her earlobe. Of course she found this irresistible and from that moment to the day she died they were inseparable.

He was glad to have the company of the little bird, but he constantly felt that they both reminded each other of what they were missing. They had intended to teach her to talk, and he knew that was something he could still do, but as with so many things, he hadn’t the heart for it.

He let her out of her cage and gently stroked her soft chest whilst she bobbed her head appreciatively. He filled her seed pot and changed her water, and she jumped back into her cage and noisily set about her breakfast. Briefly he watched her, and marvelled at her wonderful plumage. Her head, shoulders and the top half of her wings, were the bright scarlet, as was much of her tail. the rest of her plumage was the deepest blue with just a narrow band of yellow separating it from the scarlet.

They weren't sure how old she was when they had bought her, but the sly vendor had assured them that she would grow into a fine specimen. On reflection, Carlo realised that poor Bella was probably the feeblest of the brood, and she never did grow to even half her expected size.

He bade the little bird Arividerci, and set off down the hill to the harbour. He gave his own breakfast a miss; he felt that something was not quite right today. There was an unaccountable tension in the air. The usual gentle breeze that eased up from the sea was absent, and after only a short distance, he found himself sweating. It was far too hot for November and he thought a large glass of Borolo from Bene’s bar would set him right for the day.

He sat outside at his usual table, well under the awning and out of the sun. He looked across the cobbled street to the harbour where two fishing boats were moored. They had spread their nets on the quayside ready for him to do the necessary repairs. He sipped his drink and briefly felt a wave of contentment pass through him.

Not many men, he thought, could have their work so conveniently positioned next to their favourite bar. Tempted though he was to order a second glass of the rich, red, comforting wine, he knew that his day would be in ruins if he did. Sleep would quickly overtake him in the heat of the day; and he did still have a living to make.

He dropped a few coins onto the table and picked up his hat. He was stepping out from under the awning into the street, when he heard the throaty roar of a sports car approaching. An instant memory of that dreadful day in Catania two years ago flashed through his mind. A sleek open topped Bugatti glided to a halt in front of him. The driver wore a leather helmet with racing goggles, and gloves, which looked incongruous given the heat of the day.

The driver pulled off his helmet and goggles to reveal a handsome face with a beaming smile. He beckoned for Carlo to come closer to him.

Bonjorno signore, I wonder if you can help me? I am looking for something and if you can help me find it, I will pay you well.

Carlo stepped closer to the strangers car and looked into the mans blue eyes that surveyed him mischievously.

Bonjorno signore, my name is Carlo, what is it that you are looking for?

I am Baron Gaetano di Ventimiglia He extended a gloved hand towards Carlo, who hesitated before taking it. He had a feeling of intrigue yet suspicion, wondering what a nobleman, driving such a car, could possibly be seeking in this humble setting. Carlo shook his hand and was surprised how firm and vigorous the mans grip was.

Shall we take a drink together in your fine bar? I know it is still early in the day but a glass of wine is always welcome don’t you think?

He jumped briskly down from the car and laid an arm across Carlo’s shoulders, and lead him back into the shade, to the table he had just vacated.

Now what is good here, what would you recommend?

When they were comfortably settled with a bottle of Barrolo and two well filled glasses, the Baron took out a gold cigarette case and matching lighter. He offered Carlo a Balkan Sobrane. He rarely smoked but he found himself reaching out for one of the black and gold opulent cylinders. He had decided that today was going to be different, and he had a strange feeling that it may even be life changing.

The Baron drained the last drops of the smooth red wine into Carlo’s glass, and looked at the label appreciatively. He raised his arm and imperiously clicked his fingers in the direction of the proprietor who was reading his morning paper behind the bar. Signore another bottle of your excellent Borolo per favore.

Carlo looked at the Baron with a mixture of admiration and concern. He admired his obvious wealth and easy charm; but he was concerned that as his own level of intoxication rose, he would commit himself to something that he may later come to bitterly regret. After twenty minutes of inconsequential banter he was none the wiser as to the object of the Barons search.

After refilling their glasses with the newly arrived wine, the Baron lit another cigarette and deeply inhaled the rich smoke with an air of louche satisfaction.

He leaned back in his seat and gave Carlo a charming smile.

I spent last night in a most interesting establishment in Catania. The Bar Braga is not usually my sort of place. However, from what the owner, Vittorio, told me, everyone passes through it eventually. So it is the place to go to find out what is happening in the world.Carlo gave him a sceptical look and replied, Yes I know Vittorio well enough, but don’t believe everything he tells you. He’s only out for himself is Vittorio.

The Baron spread his arms as if to say, aren’t we all. Anyway, never mind about Vittorio, I still haven’t told you what I would like you to do for me have I Carlo? You have told me all about how you keep the fishermen going about their business; and I have told you about my beautiful Bugatti

Carlo nodded obediently but knew that he must concentrate. The wine and the heat of the day were in danger of sending him to sleep.

My work Carlo is in the cinema. I help to make the films that you may have seen in Catania or Taormina. I am a cameraman and work in many different countries.As Carlo listened he began to wonder what all this could possibly have to do with him and his small village.

Now a couple of years ago I helped to make a film for an Englishman called Alfred Hitchcock. He was the director, so really it was his film. But it was not his company or his money that set up the making of this film. It was called 'The Mountain Eagle', and to be honest, it was a pretty lousy film. So they decided, after a few poor showings in Europe and America, to drop it, and destroy all the copies of the film that existed.

The Baron paused to recharge their glasses. Carlo belatedly tried to cover his glass with his hand, and wine cascaded over his fingers onto the table.

Embarrassed, Carlo fumbled with a napkin and tried to dab up the spillage.

Sorry…sorry, I’m not used to so much wine…..But I don’t see what any of this has to do with me or my village?He spread his arms wide to indicate his domain.

Sorry Carlo, it is me who should apologise. I have imposed myself upon you long enough, so I will get to the point. Quite simply I want you to find the last remaining copy of 'The Mountain Eagle'. When I heard that Hitchcock and the producer, a man called Balcon had decided to have all copies of our film destroyed; I decided to hide a copy and tell no one about it. I did not consider this to be stealing since I had done all the filming and it was therefore mostly my creation. As it happened it was made easy for me as he gave me the responsibility for gathering together all the copies from abroad. So I kept one copy back for myself. I don’t believe anybody else was instructed to dispose of any other copies that may have existed from the brief time that the film was shown in London. However, when Michael Balcon, the producer, sent for me soon after, he wanted my assurance that I had complied with his wishes and together we destroyed all the copies I had brought him. As one of life’s gamblers, I found it easy to look him in the eye and tell him that of course I had; sad though it made me to see all that work go up in smoke. I think I may even have managed to shed a tear.

The Baron paused to quaff the rest of his wine. Carlo began to see where this may be leading, but more to the point, he wanted to know what was in it for him.

OK, so what happened then? What did you do with it he asked the Baron.

The Baron leaned closer to Carlo across the table, and in a quieter more conspiratorial voice said, Ah,now that is the heart of the matter my friend. I had to store it somewhere safe. As I am constantly on the move with my work, and I could hardly be seen to be carrying four canisters of film labelled 'The Mountain Eagle', in my luggage. So I entrusted them to a guy who had been my assistant from time to time, a Signor Baldini, and instructed him to bring them back here to Sicily. Like you and me, Sicily was his home and birthplace. You look surprised. Yes he was Paulo Baldini from this very village. He told me that he would hide the canisters in a place that only he would know about, and not to worry about them, they would be safe.

Carlo had suddenly sobered up and looked intently across at the Baron.

But Paulo was killed over a year ago! He somehow managed to fall into the volcano. At least that’s what they think happened to him. His body was never recovered. They just found his leather bag quite close to the rim. He used to gather mushrooms early most mornings, and there were some in his bag. But there are no mushrooms growing so high up the mountain, so why he was there and what actually happened we will probably never know.

The Baron smiled grimly and shook his head.

A terrible thing to happen to any man, but he had no family from what Vittorio told me, and he lived alone, is that right? Carlo nodded, but said nothing.

He would be about your age Carlo, did you know him well?

I knew him, but not well. He was very much a loner since his mother died a few years ago. That would be about the time he left here to seek his fortune in Catania.

Yes that’s where I met him by chance. We were doing some filming locally and we took him on as a helper. He was hard working and soon made himself indispensable. We asked him to join our crew on the next film we had planned. This happened to be 'The Mountain Eagle', which we were to shoot in the Austrian Tyrol. It was Paulo who offered to bring the film back here. He had become homesick. I think he missed his solitary scouring of the mountainside. When news of his tragic accident eventually filtered through to England, where I was working, several months had elapsed, and there was nothing I could do. I thought no more about the film he had hidden for me. However that was all to change. Hitchcock's first film, 'The Pleasure Garden', was, like his second, 'The Mountain Eagle', not considered to be commercially viable. But it was not destroyed; it was shelved until a few months ago when out of the blue, Hitchcock had a huge hit on his hands with the release of his next film,'The Lodger'. Suddenly the public couldn’t get enough of Hitchcock’s films. So Balcon and his backers immediately wanted to cash in on this success and re-released his first film. They would love to have released his second one as well, however awful they thought it was. The pity was, all copies and prints had been destroyed!

He was silent for a minute whilst he let the significance of what he had been telling Carlo, sink in.

Carlo may have been a simple villager from Mascali and in no way worldly like the Baron; but he was not stupid; and so he asked the Baron, what to him was the obvious question.

I presume you checked out Paulo’s old house before snaring another casual villager to continue your little game.

"Firstly Carlo, this is not a little game. If we can find those canisters safe and sound, I can assure you we will both be richer men. And secondly, yes I have already had a pleasant half hour with the delightful Signora Rosa de Pieta. She and her charming daughters Gabriella and Giselle showed me all the splendid work that she and her husband have done to renovate the shambles that they bought from Paulo’s estate. I told her that I may be filming a tribute to Paulo Baldini’s life, and it would be good to get a sense of the atmosphere of where he used to live. We looked from top to bottom, inside and out, but no possible hiding places, and nothing amongst Paulo’s rubbish that they cleared out either. However, just as I was leaving, she asked me if I would be filming up on the mountain, since Paulo used to spend so much time there. I said we might, just to get some local colour. Then she said a strange thing.

- It may be a bit more than local colour. When his will was read, it mentioned his shed. We assumed it was the crumbling remains that you saw at the back of the house. She then went on to say, - But Signora Pescali who knows everything and everybody seemed to think he had a secret bolt hole somewhere up on the mountain. But since he kept so much to himself, no one could say if it was true or not."

Carlo felt drained from trying to follow the Baron’s fascinating, but convoluted story. He realised that his days work plans, were in tatters. He had let his valued customers down. They would have expected their nets to be fully repaired and ready for the evenings tide. As it was he was almost incapably drunk and fit for nothing other than a very long sleep. They stared at each other with the two empty Barolo bottles between them. Each was expecting the other to say something final or significant which would bring their meeting to some sort of conclusion.

It was Carlo who finally spoke. No I didn’t know he had a shed somewhere on the mountain, but if you want me to go on some wild goose chase to try and find it then it had better be worth my while.

Excellent, my good new friend Carlo. I promise you this; if you find Paulo’s shed and the film is there and still intact…. He paused, as if doing a calculation, Bring it safely back to me and I will give you four thousand lire. How does that sound to you Carlo eh?

Carlo’s jaw dropped open in disbelief. All thoughts of broken nets and broken promises were instantly dispelled. Though his mind was far from being at it’s sharpest as the Barrolo eased away most of his rational thought, he knew a good thing when he heard it. Four thousand lire was over three months wages for a lot of hard work. One day scouring the mountainside seemed an excellent trade off.

Signore, I will gladly search for and find your Mountain film, up on our mountain. That is of course if it is there to be found!

The Baron rose from the table, took a twenty lire note from his wallet and tossed it on the table. He pulled on his driving gloves and smacked one fist into the other palm, ensuring that they were perfectly placed.

If, it’s there my good friend, then I’m sure you will find it. Meet me here at six tomorrow evening. I will make it worth your while with or without the film. Ciao for now.

Carlo watched as the Baron climbed back into his gleaming Bugatti. He put his hat and goggles on, gave a cheeky salute and roared off down the street.

Even before the cars throaty roar had faded into the distance, Carlo was snoring gently, still at the table in the shade; his head rising and falling on his chest as he dreamed of mountains, eagles and piles of lire notes.

MOUNT ETNA, NOVEMBER 2nd 1928

He clawed desperately at the last fronds of overgrown creeper that clung tenaciously to the side of the hut. With the door finally revealed he fumbled for the handle. He pushed it down hard, at the same time putting his shoulder to the door. Nothing budged. He pushed again and rammed his shoulder even harder at the solid door. Again nothing moved. He waited a moment before trying again. Breathing deeply he glared at the door whilst summoning his strength for a more telling assault. Something about the door made him hesitate. There was a faint glow reflected from the black surface. He reached out to touch it and saw his pale hand turn to a deep red. He spun round and cried out in horror at what he saw. A sea of white hot lava was approaching in a wide crescent down the mountainside. He could now hear the crackling as the foliage and timber were instantly incinerated by the deadly kiss of the molten lava.

He felt a wave of heat pass over him as the night breeze carried the deadly signature of the lava flow. Without further thought and with a surge of strength born out of adrenaline fuelled panic, he hurled himself sideways at the centre of the unyielding door. With a splintering crack the door flew inwards, one rusted hinge fell away and the door slewed adrift before hitting the floor in a cloud of dust.

His momentum sent him staggering through into the stifling blackness of the airless hut. As he had set out that morning he had prepared himself well. He had filled his backpack with food, water, a hammer and chisel, plus a small lantern and matches. The backpack and all its contents were now at the bottom of the pond. Without the lantern, and with only seconds to spare before he must flee for his life, he despaired of any chance of locating the film.

He reached out with both arms and blindly felt ahead of him. The hut was only a few paces in either direction, but the floor was littered with boxes, tools and remnants of long dead plants. He frantically tore at the boxes flinging them aside. He fell to his knees and groped hopelessly amongst the sea of rubbish. His eyes filled with tears of frustration compounded by the searing heat. The temperature inside the hut began to soar as the remorseless flow of lava came ever nearer. He rubbed away the tears and tried to see what lay at the far end of hut. Suddenly through the gloom and aided by the increasing glow from the lava flow, Carlo saw a chest; a large chest with a curved lid, like pirates would have used to store their treasure. Still on his knees he pulled his way across to it, praying that it wouldn’t be locked and bolted. With trembling hands he sought the fastenings. He whimpered with the frustration at his clumsiness. Mercifully there was no padlock, just a long rusted bolt.

He wrenched it to one side and flung open the heavy lid. He almost hauled himself into the trunk, hands feeling left and right for anything that might resemble canisters of film. He felt a mound of old newspapers which he grabbed and hurled over his shoulder in huge handfuls. Then beneath the papers he felt a sack He pulled at it and drew it from the chest and held it in his hands. It was tightly tied at the neck by thin rope, but judging by the weight and feel of its contents, he knew that this must be it. At that moment a sudden blinding flair of light from behind him illuminated the hut. The piles of paper had spontaneously burst into flames and a mini inferno was rapidly developing. Tossing the sack over his shoulder he charged into the wall of flame that raged between him and the entrance. Time seemed to be held suspended as the flames hungrily sought him out. His shirt and trousers smouldered and the tinder dry sack across his back sprouted crests of yellow. No air remained to be breathed; he gasped and sucked at the blisteringly hot vapour desperate to find a vestige of life saving oxygen.

His legs refused to obey him and he felt the furnace beneath his feet