Victory Disc

by Andrew Cartmel

  “Well, we can’t give them our time,” said Nevada, “but we can certainly give them some money. How much cash have you got on you?”

  “About three quid in coins. Plus credit cards and a bank card.”

  Nevada glanced at the milling crowd of badger fans at the far end of the garden. “No, I want to give them cash, and a decent amount. But I’ve got even less on me than you.”

  I shrugged. “Then we’ll have to go find a bank machine.”

  “No,” said Nevada. “I’ve got a bankroll in the car.”

  “What? Since when?”

  “Even in the finest hotels you don’t want all your cash in the room with you. So I concealed some in our vehicle. Underneath the spare tyre, as it happens. I put it there when we packed the car this afternoon.” She rose from the table. “I’ll go and get it.”

  “No, that’s all right,” I said. “I’ll get it. I have to go to the loo anyway.” I got up and Nevada sat down.

  “You are a darling,” she said.

  “Aren’t I just.”

  “And perhaps when you go in you could remind them one more time about making sure the roast beef is rare.”

  “I could,” I said, “but I suspect I’d end up with a serving fork through my throat.”

  I went in to the pub, visited the toilet, then went out to the car park. This was located across a narrow winding road, beside some kind of municipal building which backed onto a wide open field.

  Absurdly, there was a large tree in the middle of the concrete car park. I suppose it was admirable of them not to have simply chopped it down and paved over it, but it had called for some nimble manoeuvring when we’d arrived. The car park had been almost full and very busy.

  Now there was no one else around, although it was still cluttered with vehicles. A narrow access lane ran from the road past the municipal building on one side and some houses on the other before broadening out into the car park.

  I walked down the lane. As I passed the tree someone approached from the other side of the shadowy car park. One of the hippies from the pub. He was clutching a wad of pamphlets with pictures of badgers on them. When he saw me he came towards me, holding out the pamphlets.

  I reached out to accept one—Nevada would probably want to peruse it at length—when he threw the whole pile of them in my face. I was too startled to react for an instant, and by then he was on me, grabbing for me.

  I wrestled with him desperately, driving an elbow into his chest and tearing free. As I hit him, the top of his head slipped off.

  His entire scalp sloughed off horribly in a single piece.

  But it wasn’t his scalp. It was a wig. The long hair fell to the ground revealing a smoothly shaved bald head.

  And, as if just to hammer the point home, he had a swastika tattooed there. I started looking around for something heavy to hit him with—a frying pan would have been my preferred choice—but before I could even register the lack of any such useful implement nearby, I saw movement in the shadows.

  Someone else running towards us out of the darkness.

  It was the other ‘hippie’. He had something in his hands. A wide, dark, shapeless object. I fought savagely but between the two of them they drove me to the ground and held me down, helpless. They reached into my jacket and searched my pockets.

  They pulled out my phone. Then they stopped searching me and one of them held me down while the other one picked up the shapeless object. It was a large sack.

  They pulled it over my head.

  27. SACK

  I shouted for help.

  But what was the point?

  I hadn’t seen anyone else in the street when I’d been coming from the pub. It was a quiet village. Anyone who was out at this time of the evening was sitting in the beer garden, on the other side of the pub, on the other side of the road.

  On the other side of the world.

  And now they had pulled a sack over my head. Halfway to my knees, in fact. On the outside of the sack they’d cinched a belt around my waist, tight. So not only could I not see, I couldn’t even use my arms. They were bound too tightly to my sides in the close-fitting sack.

  The sack itself was made of some kind of heavy, rough cloth that would have muffled the sound. So now I stopped shouting and saved my breath—and waited for an opportunity. They were moving close beside me, one on either side, shoving me roughly along, blind and stumbling.

  I waited for my chance. To escape.

  But it didn’t come.

  We abruptly stopped and one of them punched me in the stomach, and while I was doubled over in agony they pushed me over. I hit something—hard, metal—with the back of my legs and fell and kept falling to slam down on my back. I was in a small metal space. They shoved my legs in after me and something heavy and metallic slammed down above me. I smelled oil.

  I was in the boot of a car.

  Helpless, tied up in a sack, in the boot of a car.

  I heard the engine start, and the exhaust pipe throbbed under me through the metal bed of the vehicle. We drove off.

  I started working my arms, pushing out at the sack so that it was dragged up past the belt. If I could get the bottom of the sack past it, I could pull it off over my head. But before I got very far something snagged and the sack wouldn’t move any further. All I’d achieved was a fraction more room in which to move my arms.

  I don’t know how long we drove for. It seemed like an eternity but was probably no more than a quarter of an hour. Finally we turned off onto a rough, rutted road, jolted along for some distance and then stopped.

  They switched off the engine. Doors slammed. They came for me.

  The lid of the boot opened and cool air rushed in. I’d already decided what to do when this happened. With my arms pinioned there was no way I could overpower them and make a break for it. Indeed, with my arms tethered so close to me in the sack I could hardly get my balance and stand up straight.

  So instead, I lay there limply as if I was unconscious. This didn’t seem to bother them. They dragged me out and carried me.

  Even through the sack, the cool night air was nectar after the hot, oily, airless space of the boot.

  They walked along, carrying me over what felt like rough, uneven ground. We moved as a unit in eerie silence. Then one of my captors spoke.

  “You got the leaflets?”

  “The what? Oh, yes.”

  They kept walking. They were strong; the two of them didn’t seem to have any trouble carrying me. I tried to simulate a dead weight. I heard twigs crunching underfoot. We were among trees and bushes. I could feel us brushing past the shrubbery.

  “He hasn’t said anything.”

  “Shut up.”

  I heard an owl call. We were deep in the country.

  “What if he’s dead?”

  “Just shut it.”

  Gradually we began to move uphill—a gentle slope.

  “No, listen, if he’s dead, if he’s already dead, it isn’t going to work, is it? I mean, it won’t look like—”

  “Shut. Your. Gob.”

  “I’m serious. It won’t look all right if he’s already dead. We have to check if he’s dead.”

  My heart raced in my chest. They were going to examine me. They would open the sack. They would have to. And then I would—

  “He’s alive all right. I just felt his muscles tense up.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “He’s thinking about trying something clever.”

  “Well, it’s too late for that.”

  We came to a sudden halt and they let me drop. I slammed to the ground. The wind was knocked out of me and before I could recover they were kneeling on me. I struggled, but there was nothing I could do. I felt them loosening the belt, then they picked me up again. The sack was flapping loosely around me now. My feet and legs were suddenly free—at least in theory. But my escorts still gripped me tightly, one carrying me by the elbows so he controlled my arms, the other holding onto my legs.
r />   I started to kick, but it was too late. They were lowering me towards the ground and I felt my feet go into a hole. Then my legs. It was a tight, narrow hole. As I kicked out, my feet almost immediately made contact with the sides of it. A hole in the ground, roughly circular in section, and narrow.

  But wide enough for my body.

  “It’s a tight fit.”

  “He’ll go.”

  They shoved me and down I went—legs, hips, wildly struggling arms. They forced my arms to my sides, and shoved my torso in. As my head and shoulders went in, they whipped the sack off my head.

  Then they pulled the sack out of the opening, retrieving it. I caught a moment’s glimpse of their pale faces against the night sky, then I was in the hole.

  It was a tunnel, slanting down into the earth. I slid down it with the impetus of their final shove until I came to a halt. I was perhaps a metre below ground. I heard them shove something in after me—a rustling sound—and then they slammed something down on the hole, and I felt myself cut off from the world above.

  I was sealed in the darkness.

  The tunnel was so narrow that my arms were trapped at my sides. I was utterly unable to move them. I felt a sudden wave of panic and twisted wildly around. But as I twisted, I inadvertently drove myself further down the tunnel, and as I slipped further down I found that it widened. I could move my arms. I breathed a fervent thanks and kept moving downwards.

  My feet were moving into a much larger space. I descended into it. I could actually move now, arms, legs, everything. I couldn’t stand up, or even sit up fully, but I was grateful for what I’d got. I was in a dark chamber about twice as long as my body and wide enough so that I could stretch out both my arms and my fingertips would barely brush the sides. Kneeling, I could almost, but not quite, sit up fully. I was in utter darkness. I felt roots brush my head. They must be coming through the ceiling of the chamber.

  It was an irregular space, roughly dug out of the sandy earth. It had a thick covering of what felt like dried grass on the floor. There was a sweetish smell, like a dry compost heap, but I didn’t think it was coming from the grass. It had a musky, animal edge to it, but it was not unpleasant.

  I tried to get my bearings, feeling my way back to the tunnel where I’d come in. As I ran my hands along the dirt walls I felt other openings, of all different sizes, some much too small for me. I managed to orientate myself and locate the spot where I’d made my entrance. I began to climb back up it, arms in front of me this time. This made for a much more controlled ascent, and gave me more room to manoeuvre. I didn’t feel any of the claustrophobic panic I’d experienced coming down. As I went up I felt something under my fingers.

  Pieces of paper. I remembered the rustling sound as they’d shoved something in after me. Square pieces of paper, several of them. I folded them and held them in my hands as I kept crawling.

  Now I knew what to expect, I managed to scrunch myself up so I could slither back up the narrow tunnel with surprising speed. I was moving towards the opening where I’d come in—or what had been the opening.

  They had sealed the hole very thoroughly. I rapped my knuckles on something hard. A large sheet of wood. I pressed my palms against it and pushed. It didn’t budge. I exerted all my strength until my shoulders creaked. Nothing. It appeared that a very substantial weight had been placed on top of the sheet of wood.

  I went back down the tunnel, wriggling backwards feet first, my hands trailing behind me. I felt a sense of relief to get back into the chamber. Home again. I realised I was still holding the pieces of paper clenched in my sweaty fists. I stuck them in my pocket. I wouldn’t be able to read them any time soon.

  They had taken my phone, so I couldn’t use it for a light source. For once I felt a regret that I didn’t smoke. With a cigarette lighter I would be able to shed some light on my surroundings, at least until it ran out of fuel or I used up all the air—

  The air.

  My heart thudded with a shock of panic that rocked my whole body. When would the air run out? Instantly I felt it getting hard to breathe. I couldn’t suck in enough oxygen. My heart was pounding, my pulse thick and heavy in my head, behind my eyes. I couldn’t breathe…

  I was going to suffocate here in the darkness.

  I forced myself to calm down.

  Gradually my heartbeat slowed. My breathing eased. There was enough air. There was plenty of air. In fact, now that I’d calmed down I realised I could feel a thin cold draught weaving around me, leaving a chill even now on the sweat on my face.

  There was air coming in from somewhere.

  Which meant there might be a way out.

  I began to explore. There were at least seven holes in the wall of the chamber, not including the one I’d come down. Of these, four were too small for me to get through. Of the three larger ones, two gave access to rapidly narrowing tunnels. I didn’t travel too far down these before turning back. I still had a morbid fear of getting stuck.

  The final tunnel led to another chamber, about half the size of the first one and with a much lower ceiling. There were a half-dozen holes in the walls here, none of them big enough for me to get through. I returned to the first chamber.

  Home again.

  I crawled into the darkness of this small space, its contours already becoming familiar to me. There wasn’t much more I could do. It was still the middle of the night. I would have to wait until morning before I could do anything else. As soon as the sun was up, I’d go looking for any hint of light. Somewhere above me there were—thankfully—holes letting in air.

  They would also let in light.

  If I could see them, I could move towards them. Even if it meant enlarging the diameter of one of the narrower tunnels. Somehow I would dig myself out of here. Could I dig with my hands? Maybe I could snap off one of the roots from the ceiling, use it as a shovel. My mind whirled with possibilities. I forced myself to relax, to stop speculating. For now, there was nothing I could do. Except conserve my energy.

  Exhausted, I curled up on the bed of sweet grass and went to sleep.

  * * *

  I had no way of estimating how long I slept, but I was awakened by the muffled thudding of an engine somewhere on the surface above me. My heart surged with hope. I listened to see if the vehicle would come nearer. Perhaps I could signal somehow. Hammer on the wooden lid that sealed the entrance.

  But the engine didn’t come any nearer. As far as I could tell, it didn’t move in any direction. It wasn’t a passing car, because it would have passed by now. And it wasn’t a tractor working back and forth across a field, because it didn’t seem to move at all.

  It just stayed in one place.

  Perhaps it was a generator. Running a pump or something. I lay down again; in my excitement I’d risen to my knees. As I lowered my face to the dried grass I smelled something odd. The sweetish fragrance was gone. Something else was there. I sniffed. Suddenly the air in the chamber was smelling insidiously less fresh.

  I sat up immediately. Higher up, the air wasn’t so bad, but something was still clearly wrong. Had the breathing holes been sealed? But I could still feel the draught circulating around me. If anything, it was a little stronger—warm and insistent.

  Warm.

  And now it carried an itchy, choking smell with it. A faint odour of petrol.

  Suddenly I knew exactly where I was.

  I was in a badger sett.

  And they were pumping in exhaust fumes.

  28. UPWARDS

  I didn’t know how long it takes for carbon monoxide to kill you, but I knew it wasn’t long.

  I forced myself to think. What were they doing to me? They were pumping exhaust fumes from an engine on the surface. They must be using a hose or something, and getting it into the sett through a breathing hole.

  A breathing hole. Possibly not the only one. Come to think of it, there was bound to be more than one breathing hole, if only to give proper ventilation. This sett struck me as a well-enginee
red structure, fashioned by creatures who knew what they were doing, at least when it came to sett building. There was certain to be another breathing hole.

  Sensible, clever badgers.

  I scrambled down one of the wide tunnels to the second, smaller chamber. The air in here seemed cleaner. I searched the walls, feeling them like a blind man reading Braille. As I found each hole I stuck my head into it and breathed, searching for that incoming breeze, clean and pure and cool.

  Instead what I found was dead, stale air. I groped from one hole to the next, already certain that I’d visited them all already, but seeking them out again with my hands in the dark, desperate—

  In the dark.

  In the absolute, total darkness. There was no tiny hint of light. And the sun must be up by now. So no light meant no openings.

  If there were other breathing holes, someone had closed them.

  I was sealed in.

  The air in this chamber was starting to become hot and heavy with the smell of exhaust.

  I crawled back down the tunnel into the larger chamber.

  The air in here was now very bad.

  I couldn’t just stay here and die. Maybe I could batter my way out through that piece of wood over the main entrance. I hadn’t been able to shift it last night. But now I had slept. I was refreshed. I was…

  Suffocating.

  Up the tunnel I went, worming my way towards the opening, the promise of life, and the all too solid barrier I knew was waiting for me there. I surged and slithered upwards. I was becoming accustomed to the strange manner of motion required, and I was now moving very quickly.

  So quickly that I slammed right into the wooden barrier, a painful collision for my urgently questing hands. I crawled up as close to it as I could, my face against the wood. I could smell it. Just cheap particle board, but solid enough to seal my fate, with whatever weight they’d placed against it. It smelled of formaldehyde. Embalming fluid. How appropriate.

  It took me a moment to identify the crazed laughter as my own, and at that moment I realised just what an easy thing to lose a mind can be. Your sanity blowing away like an unsecured toupee in a high wind.