The King's Shilling

by Fraser John Macnaught

  He threw the clothes and the pipe in the same skip as before and emptied Terry’s wallet and handed a fistful of notes to a homeless person at the Tube-station door. He wondered if Terry would go to the same dentist he’d just seen. And if he’d look at the same magazine and see the same pictures of Sarah. He hoped his suffering would match his own.

  Chapter 25

  Friday April 26th 2013

  After breakfast at the Pulitzer he decided to concentrate on the Queensday article.

  He made phone-calls and sent emails and made more phone-calls and managed to organise a few interviews; with an historian specialising in the Dutch monarchy; with a street-market vendor who was celebrating 50 years of Koninginnedags; with a songwriter who was performing an original song for the new King’s inauguration; and with a man from the tourist board who was almost drooling as he gave him the estimated figures for tourist expenditure during the coming week.

  When he returned from four hours of traipsing round the city and listening to people congratulate themselves he took off his shoes and sat down at the desk in his room. He selected quotes and statistics and pieced them together with a rundown on the current political situation in Holland and the off-the-record views of a number of other journalists he had met and some of his own observations and ideas and he put together a piece that he thought was informative and quirky and upbeat and he sent it off, pleased with himself and very tired.

  He got a complimentary email back within half an hour and he went down to the hotel gym and pedalled ten kilometres on an easy bike programme listening to Black Uhuru on his iPhone.

  Back in his room he surfed for a while, catching up on the sports news.

  He slept for an hour and when he woke up it was six o’clock and he was hungry.

  He walked to an Indonesian restaurant that served all day and he gorged himself on the special gastronomic menu. Heaven.

  Chapter 26

  Friday April 26th 2013

  It was 11.23 p.m and Paul was in a part of the city he’d never been to before. He was surrounded by warehouses and storage areas, and there were serious-looking canals to his left and his right. Not the usual picturesque canals with houseboats and railings and tubs of geraniums everywhere and picture-postcard cafés and bars along the banks, but industrial canals, deep and broad with docks and sluice gates and pumps and heavy machinery where they joined other canals or dry docks. There were no flowers here, apart from the odd weed squeezing out of a crack in the huge slabs of concrete around him. There were no tourists strolling arm-in-arm. There were cranes and loading bays and piles of pallets and coils of rope. It was a place that lived by day with barges and cargo ships and dockers and stevedores. And it died by night.

  There were one or two spotlights on tall masts on the edge of his field of vision, but overall it was dark, and the pale moon above didn’t help. He had to be careful where he put his feet. There were metal chains and rails lying in wait to trip him up and the occasional bollard and mooring ring that he didn’t fancy banging a shin against.

  He heard a sound to his right and stepped between a container and a Portakabin and saw a hole in the ground in front of him. It was a square opening, maybe a metre across, with two metal doors that had been opened, one on the right and one on the left, flat against the concrete. He looked down the hole and saw a ladder going down but he couldn’t see anything else. He smelt vanilla.

  He heard it first… a whooshing sound that he’d heard before. Then his head exploded and he fell forward. His foot swung in front of him and he avoided falling head first but he skidded into the hole, his legs twisting beneath him and he fell down the shaft, feet first, the air rushing past him, his arms flailing, scraping against the walls, one hand hitting the metal rungs of a ladder and he tried to grasp it but then his head hit the wall and he was already at the bottom and his feet slammed up against the back of his thighs and he was in two feet of water and his head fell forward against his chest and he was out.

  He was in a tunnel and there was white light and he was cold. But the light wasn’t really light it was a sound in his head and the sound was getting louder. He opened his eyes and saw nothing so he closed them again. The sound was getting even louder and the white light was fading into grey and then black. He opened his eyes again and saw the blackness. And something else. He saw his hand in front of him. And then his arm, and then the water he was sitting in and the water was rippling as if he were sitting in a stream and it was midnight. He put a hand to his head and felt a soft spongy mess where something had hit him. He moved his neck a little and winced and moved it another way and he felt it crack. He moved a leg and heard the same sound and it was like a roar. The stream was getting deeper. From above he saw a crack of light and he’d fallen from somewhere and maybe it was from up there. There was a shaft. Perhaps it was ten metres high, perhaps twenty… He was on his knees now, both knees, and his back was burning and taut and he wondered if he would ever walk again. He tried to stand up but there was nothing to hold on to and it took forever. His head was in the shaft now because the tunnel on either side was only about 1 metre 50 high and he couldn’t see anything else. He twisted his neck up and almost screamed from the pain. He blinked a few times and saw the glimmer at the top of the shaft and the light reflecting off something… something metal perhaps, the rungs of a ladder, but the ladder was too high and there was no way he could reach it. The water was above his knees now and the roar was getting louder as the water swept along the tunnel. He ducked down, his back like a stiff hinge, shooting hot metallic jolts up to his neck and into his head. He bent down and looked right and saw a dull glow perhaps 40 yards away. He looked left and saw nothing. But that was where the sound was coming from. The water was coming in waves now and it smelt of dead flowers and salt. He stumbled along the tunnel to his right, crouched over, peering at the glow, his head scraping against the rounded roof and his feet slipping on slimy bricks or tiles or mud as he inched forward. A sudden surge sent him flying forward and he was swimming now, smashing into the sides of the tunnel, head first, and he was whirled round in the current and his feet were ahead of him and everything was black again. The tunnel was 1 metre 50 in diameter and the water was 1 metre deep and still pouring in. He threw himself to his left and spun round, spitting water and thrashing with his legs and he looked for the dull glow he had seen before but there was nothing. Then he saw a pinhole of light in the ceiling, the roof, the arched top of the tunnel… and he turned back to look at it but it was gone and he slammed against a metal grill and felt the heavy rush of water against his chest and he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. He was pinned against the metal grill covering the whole width and height of the tunnel and the water was heavy and pounding his whole body and he couldn’t move. He thought he saw the pinpoint of light in the roof again but then it disappeared as the water splashed up in his eyes and he was choking. He slipped his hands down along the grill, and felt for something… a lock, a key, a handle, a hinge… but there was nothing, and he felt his wrists and hands being pressed against the rusty metal and knew they were cut and bleeding. He forced himself a few inches to his right towards the wall and banged his head, right on his wound, and it hurt, and he had to lower it into the water to edge forward. The tunnel was almost filled now, with just a few inches below the roof with air that he could breathe. He leant out into the space and gulped in some air then pressed along the wall and felt a brick and clung onto it and edged another few inches and felt another brick. He saw the pinprick of light and judged how far away it was and swallowed some water and coughed and swallowed more water. Another brick and he was a foot away from the pinprick and the water was almost up to the roof now. The water pressure was increasing… there was nowhere else for it to go. He leant out once more and spat and swallowed some air and pushed his nose against the stone roof and breathed for the last time. He held onto a brick with his left hand and wedged his feet against something solid, and slid his right arm along his body. He fel
t in his jacket pocket and found what he was looking for and his arm was pressed and squeezed against his body as he pulled it out. He leant out and felt for a handhold in the roof and found a gap and wedged his fingers into it. He slid his other hand along his neck and chin and into his mouth and he pulled out the nib and the plastic ink container with his teeth and let it flow away and he stuck the plastic tube from his Bic biro in his mouth and then he lunged up and pushed his face against the hole in the roof where the pinprick of light was and pushed the tube up with his tongue and his lips and his teeth and wondered how long he could hold on. With his last breath he blew into the tube and knew that he’d spat out some water and then he counted to three and he sucked in through the tube and he felt a little air in his mouth. His fingers were going numb, holding onto the brick, and his other arm and hand and fingers ached from trying to lean against the roof but he held on and he breathed in a little again and felt the coldness of the air hit the back of his throat. He pressed his face against the hole and felt the rough surface against his cheeks and chin. He wanted to cough but knew he couldn’t so he swallowed and sucked in some more air. There was water in it, and he blew and spat it out and pushed the pen up further, to its limit, his teeth holding on to the end but only just and he sucked down some air again. For a moment he wondered what the water pressure was… how many bars, how many tons of water were flowing through the tunnel and how could his body resist it? And he sucked in some more air and realised that that was the first conscious thought he’d had in the last few minutes, since he fell… if it had even been a few minutes… how long had it been?

  He kept on pushing with his hands and his feet against the roof and the wall and pressing his mouth against the hole and took small breaths, then bigger breaths and he found a rhythm and a horrible question came into his head. He counted the breaths and concentrated on counting and on holding his position against the force of the water, like a torrent from Hell. He blew out more water from the tube and sucked in more air and counted again. He had a vision of another time he had counted his breaths but he didn’t feel that cold now and he knew he had to find an answer to the horrible question that he was trying to ignore.

  He counted some more and tried not to breathe so quickly but he knew he was panicking and his heart was racing, so he slowed the count and added halves between the numbers, 37, 37 and a half, 38… and then his foot moved and he slipped and the pen fell from his mouth and was gone and he lunged back up and stuck his mouth against the hole but there was only water there and no air.

  And then he felt a surge around his ankles, and another swirl around his thighs and he thought he was going to be swept away, but it wasn’t that… the water pressure was actually weakening, he could feel it. He opened his eyes but he couldn’t see anything. He spat again towards the hole and pressed against it and sucked in and there was some air… and then he felt cold air on the top of his head. He felt his lips and mouth in the air against the hole and risked opening his mouth at one corner and he felt more air. He could breathe. He coughed and spat up some vomit and coughed again and breathed in. He wriggled his fingers in the crack in the roof and repositioned his feet against the floor and something solid near the wall and felt less resistance from the flow of water.

  He opened his eyes again and saw the pinprick of light above him. It was a narrow shaft, a drill-hole, perhaps only 4 inches wide, and there was light at the top, maybe 10, 15 or 20 metres above… he didn’t know… perhaps the same height as the shaft he’d fallen down. He blinked as water splashed into his eyes, but he could hold his nose up now and breath through it. He realised how much his back and his neck were aching and felt the cramp in his legs and fingers. He was alert now, conscious and aware of where he was and it was only then that the fear hit him, shuddering through him like a paralysing jolt of electricity, and he wondered how he had made it through what had just happened, as if he’d been on automatic pilot… He hadn’t been aware of making any choices or decisions, he’d just done what he’d done…

  The water level was dropping fast and his head was clear and he breathed in, panting, tasting the air as he gulped it down. He leaned back against the wall, still holding onto a brick with each hand. He looked to his left and saw a vague silhouette of the metal grill against a murky brown light. He suddenly remembered something Sacha Hejkoop had told him: the canals in Amsterdam were flushed clean 3 times a week. The locks to the east of the city were closed and water was brought in from the lJsselmeer, the fresh-water lake to the north. The canals were filled and then the locks were opened again and dirty water flowed out and was replaced by clean water. That was the theory, at least. The tunnel must be some kind of supply line, part of the sluicing system…

  The water was at waist height now and he could move without being swept away. He edged along the wall, stooping, his back bent against the curve of the tunnel wall and he worked his way back to the shaft.

  When he reached it, the water was barely a foot deep and the air felt cool and he shivered. He looked up at the shaft and wondered why he hadn’t stayed where he was after he’d fallen and just kept his head above the water, right there…

  He could see that the ladder in the shaft had been pulled up. He saw a short wire or a rope attached to it, so that it could be pulled down from below, he imagined, but perhaps it had been cut…

  The shaft was about a metre across, and square, and the ladder was about three metres up. He leant against one wall and tried to wedge his feet against the other wall. He spread his arms out and tried to get a grip of something but the wall was too smooth. His feet kept slipping. He stood up again. Perhaps he could go along the tunnel in the other direction, it must lead somewhere, maybe somewhere without a metal grille, with an opening… But then he heard the same sound he had heard before… the rush, the roar… and he knew there was a second wave coming. The water was already swirling round his knees again. He took his shoes off and watched them flow away and be swallowed up by the water and he tried the wedge position again. His socks gripped better on the far wall and he found some purchase with his fingers in a crack between two bricks and pushed upwards. The roar was deafening now, like a motor race or a football crowd, and he looked down and saw the stream rushing past, specks of foam picked out by the light above. He looked up, but the ladder looked a long way off and he decided not to look up or down again. He leant back against the wall, and pushed with his feet and felt his shoulders slide up and pushed some more. He spread his legs a little wider and moved one up and then the other and found another crack for his fingers. His right leg was trembling and shaking from the strain and he felt waves of cramp shooting up it but he pushed some more and wondered whether he should count the upward movements like he’d counted his breaths. The horrible question came back to him and he felt like weeping but he arched his back and found a nail sticking out of the wall with his hand and used it to push up and up again towards the light. The arches of his feet were stiff and cramped and he suddenly felt very cold. But he’d been colder than this, this was nothing, so he pushed again and felt his jacket tear as it caught on something but it slid up and there was a hole in his sock and he saw his big toe as he pressed with his feet and he heaved himself up another couple of inches. He dared to look up and the ladder was two feet away and he saw the cord for pulling it down and it looked as if it had been cut. He thought about the person who had cut it and about the question that seemed to be spinning round the hole in his head like something on the edge of a whirlpool and he pushed up and felt a surge of something, adrenaline maybe, or fear, as he felt anger and confusion and something else… and he tensed all his muscles and heaved himself up and turned and grabbed a rung on the ladder and hung from it with one hand as his body fell into space and swung there…

  He swung some more and used the momentum to reach up and he got his other hand on the rung and he breathed in…

  He looked down at the water and couldn’t see the tunnel to each side any more. The roar of the water pou
nded in his ears and he felt cold wet air blowing up from below… He felt heavy… his clothes were sodden and heavy, and his whole body was pulling him down and his fingers were slipping on the rung, but at least it had grooves in it, he could feel them, and there was some friction and grip and he hurled himself up and caught the next rung with one hand and then the other. He thought of the climbing-frame at school and he thought of Sarah when she was younger, climbing trees, and the two of them climbing trees together, and he swung up and advanced another rung and then one more and he brought his leg up and flexed it, feeling the muscles in his calves and thighs swelling and straining and splitting and then he was standing on the ladder.

  He held onto it and leant into it and stayed there for a moment and wept silently as the water rushed past below like the River Styx in Hades.

  He wondered where his Bic would end up.

  He climbed up the ladder to the top where the door to the shaft was open and he flopped out onto the concrete and he lay there on his back for a long time looking up at the moon.

  His head was beginning to ache and he ran his fingers over the bloody hair-matted pulp just above and behind his left ear. He felt a deep ridge and wondered if he’d suffered a form of concussion. Perhaps that was why it hadn’t hurt until now. Maybe that’s why he’d been unaware of what he’d been doing down in the tunnel.

  The question spun round the hole in his head again and then something clicked…

  He sat up and his thoughts raced back through a slide-show of faces and moving pictures and he heard a whirling soundtrack of words and sounds and he knew he might have an answer. He didn’t like it, but it might be an answer.

  It made sense, which was more than anything else he’d thought about in a while, but how and why did it make sense? It changed everything… whole lives… whole histories… and it meant that there might not be an abdication… He shook his head, unwilling to believe his own thoughts and he lay down again and felt as if he should go to sleep and when he woke up it would all be a dream, like in a bad French film.