Pearced

by Ryder, H

  We decide to have a quick look before Stan and Liza get back, they've been gone almost an hour now. "Torches, get the torches." Says Nigel Like a child at Christmas. I twist the handle once again, the brass now warm in my hand, and we gaze into the darkness together. The orchestra have quietened and slowed.

  Can I have a cuppa first please?

  More in chapter thirty-five, Tuesday:5thnovember2013 devils pit

  Armed with a powerful torch each, yes, we'll be perfectly fine with torches to protect us, and not a small amount if trepidation we all stand waiting behind Daniel, our deputy leader since Stan is currently unavailable.

  Daniel turns the chunky rubber knobbled handle of his torch and a strong shaft of light cuts through the still dank darkness of the cellar anteroom, slowly and creakily the door slowly opens to its fullest and a shaft of light penetrates the dark space beyond. Beyond the door is a tiny dark chamber disguised like an old pantry, shelves line the walls and there’s a very old dusty light bulb that swings lazily from a cable above disturbed by the only breeze that’s likely come in through this door in years, or is it? It of course won't work like all the best thrillers, and we gaze into the dark room. I’m almost sure I catch a very feint whiff of Chanel no.5, but dismiss it due to withdrawal from lack of tea altering my usually keen perception.

  Daniel pokes the shelves in turn to find the entrance, assuming this little pantry is a disguise to a cellar. And an old powdered English mustard tin does the trick. With a little click of a latch the shelf swings up on its end revealing a doorway, of course. It's popped ajar and beyond is darkness. I swallow. I need tea badly.

  Bloody hell.

  There’s a narrow dark staircase heading down into the blackest darkness I have ever seen, and I live in the countryside with no street lights. Reaching around on the wall there's a light switch but as an homage to all good thrillers it doesn't work either, I hear Kurt flick it on and off several times... you couldn’t make this stuff up.

  Typical, I think, more stairs going underground, this must be a cosmic test of my character, making it all about me makes me feel better somehow. My heart is doing its best to escape my chest, I can hear the blood pounding in steady rhythm around my skull, or is it my ears, I don't decide on an answer. I hum a Depeche mode song in my head 'Just Can't get Enough,' and feel slightly better, Essex boys will do that to you.

  There's another door, it swings open fully now revealing the flight of stairs, protesting like its 500 years undiscovered, then suddenly it glides smoothly like someone wanted it to appear old and unused, but oiled it half way. The light that comes in with us strikes a series of mirrored surfaces placed at intervals around the room, bringing free light into the space, just like in the main house, the light is dimming in the late afternoon but it’s sufficient to see and quite ambient.

  Going first Daniel trains his flash light down the stairs. "Sorry I was dawdling," says the Professor coming up behind us out of breath," I thought it might be a good idea to leave Stan a note telling him where we are, just in case. And I found a very heavy caste iron stew pot to jam the door open too, you know," he nods, "just in case." We all agree that is a genius plan, but then Nigel is a genius. “I read a lot of Agatha Christie” as if explanation was necessary. Well, I say to myself, who doesn’t?

  "OK, anyone think we should wait an hour for Stan to get back before we head down those dark slippery looking uneven stairs into the pit?" Asks Daniel to no one in particular, the shaft of his torchlight pointing onwards.

  "Let's just see where the steps lead,” I can't believe I’m saying it, “and come straight back up, make tea, and wait for the others?" I say in more of a question than a plan suggestion, but everyone nods in agreement and mine becomes the new plan. Stairs leading down are asking to be taken, one careful step after another.

  “I could do with a cuppa” adds the professor, pushing his glasses back up his nose smiling.

  Note to self, well done for appearing brave.

  First Daniel, then me, followed by Kurt then Nigel. We creep quietly into the darkness speared only by the strong bright beams of our torches. The sounds are footsteps on stone, heavy breathing and a nervous hum, where’s that coming from? God, it’s me! The steps are hewn from solid rock and as we descend once more beneath the earth I notice the air getting chillier and damper too.

  "Be careful people,” I warn, "the steps here get a bit slippery." And just as I say it my foot slips but I manage to control my gravity with a stop from my other foot just in time, who knows how long these steps go down for and for how long I’d have tumbled before reaching the end. Daniel looks back to check I’m OK, and I’d likely have taken him with me too. We walk more carefully now, and further down there is a crude rope handrail in places set into the wall with huge iron eyelets with a light patina of decay, where the steps are not equidistant it goes round a bend.

  After what seems like an hour of walking but I illuminate the dial on my Dads gold watch and it’s only been twenty minutes. I hear Daniels feet stop on what sounds like sand covered rock, as he twists his body to look up at us I hear it crunch beneath his Doc Martens. "We're at the bottom, I have a floor here." He says in a whisper taking my hand in reassurance, and we all pan our lights around what appears to be a medium sized room, cut roughly from the rock with huge age stained iron door set into the back wall, a rusty padlock keeping the slider bolt in place.

  "A door, is just asking to be opened!" Nigel says, his voice echoing loudly around the enclosed space. From above we hear muffled sounds and a "hello!" It's Liza, "hello, landing party ahoy! It's the away team coming back to the mother ship!" She comes bounding down the last steps like a mountain goat with no fear of heights which actually isn't true, must be love. Straight into Kurt's waiting arms.

  Note to self, if love cures all see if Daniel can fix my phobia of hand cream?

  Stan appears behind her, rolling his eyes as if his child has just run head first into a dark pit without thinking what might be down there. And if course that's exactly what she's done. "Missed us?" She asks out of breath, "we left them out in the beyond.” She tells us a little breathless but excited, “they tried to beg us not to, said we'd never find the mine without their help.” She smiles, "guess they didn't know who they're dealing with eh?" Looking suitably excited and pointing her own torch at the door, “they'll get picked up soon.” deep breaths everyone.

  “There's a slight problem," I point to the door, Liza and Stan study the huge padlock. Large and rusty looking beautifully crafted with a lace-like design all over, and the working part cast to resemble rope, but all I can think of is the twisted design of a cough-candy, it's food related, so that'll be why.

  "OK, so I guess you'd need a key for that thing then eh?" She answers laughing. "Stan took this from around Steffi’s neck before we booted their sorry arses out into the wilderness." We all enjoyed her cheesy film pastiche voice. Cheese? I must be hungry again.

  Stan holds something up in the beam of his torch, and hanging from a rough piece of string tied in a knot is a rusty old key, judging by its slightly decorative appearance and the level of oxidation I’d guess the key and the lock it was about to open are from the 1800's. Quite beautiful actually and needlessly ornate, it’s just an ordinary working part, made extraordinary. Taking the rope from Stan, Daniel slides the key into the brass lined lock, its rough surface makes a grinding noise at first but then it slots into perfect place and the lock clicks open easily with a loud 'snap' sound. Stan removes the lock from the bolt, lifts it to his nose, and hands it to me.

  I touch the surface, lift my fingers to my own nose, "its WD40 oiled, recently." Stan nods agreement, rubbing my fingertips together under my nose, “I have always loved that smell, it reminds me of my Dad.” I hand the heavy lump of metal back to Stan, “we spent hours working on ‘Old Blackie,” a statement of fact, we all look at each other, Liza smiles at me, she loved my Dad too.

  Stan places the padlock into his cargo pocket "better here,"
he tells me noticing I’m watching him with amusement, "than someone comes up behind us and locks us in!" I nod profusely in agreement, my chest thumps and I take Daniels hand, he squeezes it and smiles at me, perish the thought. I am happy Stan is here doing all the survival thinking, though I can be very handy with a hoof pick myself! After the door a strong faceful of stale air hits us, Stan wedges a large rock to keep the door open by sliding it across the floor, it must weigh twice what he does, I’m not at all surprised.

  I glance round for a sign everyone is OK, Stan is checking his torch, Nigel is of course cleaning his glasses, Liza tidies her ponytail, Kurt yawns, Daniel runs his fingers through the front of his hair, and me? I'm thinking.

  We emerge in a huge gallery with an incredibly high ceiling, natural not man cut, about four metres wide with a ring of rust coated iron fencing all round. We peer over the edge and the bottom is too far down for our torches to reach into the very solid blackness.

  Bloody hell. Not too far off either, according to the translation.

  Quatermass springs to mind, as I lean to stare into the pit. Dad was keen on a broad reading strategy for Henry and me, and it’s proved very useful. I read science fiction and he reads porn. "Steps." Kurt exclaims pointing his light a few metres to our left.

  "There's another gallery two stories below.” A rough iron tube rungs bolted to the wall leading down into the darkness. From the vaulted ceiling hangs a rusty old miners bucket, could easily fit us all in, and an ancient pulley system to send it down with an anchor to bring it to the iron fence. It's then I see there is a hinged section of barrier, it is for carrying miners further down to the mine shaft, a very old dusty smelling hole in the rock. And all good adventure stories begin with mine shafts don’t they?

  Where's the bloody kettle?

  Chapter thirty-six, Tuesday:5thnovember2013 the dark

  Illuminated by the torchlight, I see a switch on the wall with the words ‘GENERATOR’ stencilled above in faded lettering. English eh? Is that right? My brain begins a refreshed hum. Grabbing the bar and pulling it down hard with a reassuringly loud clunk, we all wait in anticipation. Nothing happens for a while then we hear a knock and whirr from off in the darkness, and a series of spluttering clicks as a motor hums’ to life, beginning a low glow of sulphur yellow lighting gradually getting brighter.

  We stand in a large artificial cave with a tall roof. Rusty thick chains dangle with old bulkhead lamps hanging from the ceiling, not a great amount of light but enough to see what is in the space. ...and lights...that work, after all this time, someone's been paying attention here, but say nothing.

  I see the huge dirty generator sitting on the floor at the far side. That's not nearly dirty enough either, its starter button has been used recently, it's smeared with grease but not nearly dusty enough.

  Hmm. I smell spilled fuel and burned oil too, all is not quite what it seems is it? My 'Spidey' senses are alert again.

  I don't sense danger so I snap my band and carry on.

  We are looking down into a massive round vertical tunnel at least fifteen metres wide. Our banister of iron has been carefully joined to the rock I shake it to test and even in this damp rusty environment it doesn't budge. Straight across from where we emerged is what looks like a tiny scruffy little office space, blasted out of the rock, there's another door and the cables that follow us down from the house seem to divide and splice into this little room. My mind noiselessly reaches out to Daniel. "Let's have a look then." Daniel says, answering my question without me even vocalising it.

  "I’ll lead," Stan says pulling his gun out of the leather holster at his side, we don't argue, Stan is in mode, his senses attuned to every sound and every movement. Since we all know exactly how many times Stan has checked the piece, we are all certain that whatever befalls us now will not be due to weapon malfunction. Of course he may have worn the thing down! We follow him around the balcony to the door, it's a smaller version of the huge iron door behind us, but this one has no lock. Stencilled on the door a little faded with decay is the word 'OFFICE'. I'm not sure what the Peruvian for 'office' is, or the Spanish either, but this doesn't feel right. Though planes have all their dials labelled in English don't they? Maybe it's a situation like that? I am fairly happy with this new explanation, but a little bored.

  Suddenly I find myself hoping there's tea making facilities in the office.

  Stan pushes the door, it resists at first, then manages to comply with a screechy yell of hinges and rust. We peer around Stan, our torches forward all looking into the dimly lit room beyond, oddly, there's a faint light on in there, that's unexpected surely? It doesn't look very interesting to me.

  It's like that part in the story that's tense and spooky because there might be something evil lurking in the dark room as the creaky door slowly opens. The drums of the music getting heavier and heavier, the feverish violins screeching in the darkness. Everyone holding their breaths and grabbing the person their sitting with. Moving too slowly into the unknown, and the lights either don't work or no one thinks to switch them on. Just torches and heavy breathing, the drums stop suddenly, but it's an anti-climax, there's either no-one there or an old lady knitting keeping rhythm to the music in her rocking chair. Well, my heart rate is normal bordering on slow, so my disquisitive side tells me, there's nothing to worry about. There's a slight breeze suggesting there's another exit, perhaps a shaft for the rail tracks for the removal of any collected ore?

  My recharged phone vibrates for attention. Signal? Weird.

  Swiping the screen, anxiously waiting for any news of home, and receive a text from Jinni telling me everything at home us fine. I am trailing behind the group attention on my handset, oblivious to anything but the handy little hand-held PA and life manager. Then, wondering who added a wireless aerial down here for phones, a happy feeling blossoming through me, my creatures are OK, and quite suddenly I really don't care how, just happy that it is so.

  JG: “Boys and cats all fine” thank goodness, she is brilliant at updating me just when I need to hear it the most, must be a gift.

  TC: “Thanks, you’re a star” I mean it too, I don’t let just anyone near my animals.

  JG: “Any idea when you’re coming home?” Oh, forgot to think about that.

  TC: “Few days, hopefully” I’d really like to leave this place and get back home.

  JG: “No probs, let me know, I'll need to get some more cat food” she must like my boys, and cats too.

  TC: “I will thanks, kisses to the creatures, and thanks Tx” they’re mine and don’t forget it!

  Sliding my finger over the glossy surface I close the text screen, decide I’m in a staying in touch type of mood, I text Pete too, hoping she’s having a nice time with James.

  TC: “Babes, how’s your new Missoni bikini working out for you?” Bait.

  PF: “Still packed up, but the Burberry dress got the desired reaction” bingo!

  TC: “Where are you?” Sitting by a pool with a Martini in your hand and Tom Ford sunglasses on?

  PF: “A remote retreat I was promised, sounds great? But what that actually means is make your own cocktails! Do I look like the kind of girl who mixes her own drinks?” James does not know who he’s dealing with.

  TC: “And while you’re mixing drinks what is James doing?” Give the bear a poke.

  PF: “He’s doing me from behind!” So proud of her.

  TC: “Nice” so jealous right now, and I hate Martinis.

  PF: “Don’t you hate Martinis?” Clever.

  TC: “Have a great time, enjoy your distractionless self” she’ll hate it.

  PF: “See you soon honey” can’t wait.

  By the time I’ve finished I stand alone on the balcony, an animated conversation resumes in the office and a smell I can't recall to memory reaches me. There's a cold and eerie feeling here, dark and damp but something else, my 'Spidey' senses are tingling, a new cologne too. I feel a sudden chill along my neck, I turn suddenly and see a face
I don't quite recognise standing not more than a metre away from where I’m pinned to the spot scared, is it fear? I’m not quite sure.

  A torch lights the face alone like a bodiless head, my own head is sending warnings of danger pinging around my cranium like a pinball with endless momentum. But the more we stare at each other the slower the ball bounces, I can hear it slowing to a stop, spin around at the bottom and still finally. Something about this face is familiar, many of the features belong to Daniel, the hair to Kurt.

  "Mr Pearse?" My voice sounds quite shaky, but I’m sure now, "Graham Pearse?" I ask him and his face lights up with a huge smile that reaches his eyes. A familiar warmth in his expression.

  "That's me,” he tells me softly, “Now who are you? And what's a smart girl like you doing down in this dark and dirty pit of a mine?" A friendly question.

  “I’m Tharie, Graham.” I look down at my phone, “just connecting with the real world.”

  “This is the only spot where you can get a signal.” He tells me in a friendly tone, “took the engineers ages to get it working too.” He laughs, a casual, easy laugh. He reaches for a switch on the wall I couldn't see before and a few more bulbs pop to life one by one.

  "You're alive?" Not quite a question. "Daniel...he thought you were dead." I tell him, not sure what question to ask first.

  "Danny? You know my Danny is he OK?" He approaches me frantic with his hands on my shoulders I sense no malice from this man, just sincerity, I am not scared.

  "He's here Mr Pearce." I look at his face, "and Kurt too." Any tenseness on his face noticeably fades and relaxes, he takes a deep breath, smiling warmly, a smile just like Daniels. "Daniel," I call a little too loudly, "here baby." Graham’s eyebrows fly up in surprise, but no questions follow, he just accepts it for now.