Annerton Pit

by Peter Dickinson

  “Could have got the bike along here,” said Martin. “Somebody else has been—Land Rover by the look of it. And they’ve been putting shingle down on the dicey bits … here’s somebody.”

  A heel gritted on gravel. Then there was the dullish plop of a rubber sole on planking.

  “Afternoon,” said Martin.

  “Good afternoon. Didn’t you read the notices?”

  A man’s voice, something like a teacher’s, slightly too clear and precise but with a touch of a slurrier accent beneath the surface.

  “Yes, but this is important,” said Martin. “We’re looking for our grandfather. His name’s Mr Uttery.”

  “Sorry, can’t help you.”

  “You might have seen him, though. There’s a good chance he came here about ten days ago or a bit more.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Oh … thin and small, but not bent. Bald. He’d be wearing a blue corduroy cap and a khaki anorak and grey flannel trousers. He’s got a little white moustache and a brown face, rather wrinkled.”

  “Can’t say I’ve seen anyone like that.”

  The words were polite, but Jake thought it didn’t sound as if the man had even thought about it.

  “Perhaps somebody else has,” said Martin.

  “Who else?”

  “Isn’t there a party of students doing research into the mine?”

  “Yeah. I’m one. But we’re pretty busy—trying to cram a lot of research into a ruddy short time. What makes you think he might have been here? It’s right out of season.”

  “Well, he’s gone missing,” said Martin, “and …”

  “Been to the police?” said the man.

  “Yes. They’re doing the routine kind of search in Newcastle …”

  “Then what are you up to, looking thirty miles north?” The man sounded more impatient than ever, but somehow also interested.

  “Granpa’s a ghost-hunter, you see,” said Martin, and paused for the usual query or grunt of surprise. He didn’t get it.

  “No ghosts here,” said the man as casually as if he’d been denying that he knew the time. This seemed to irritate Martin.

  “You’ve heard of the Annerton Dyke Disaster?” he asked.

  “Can’t say I have. This is Annerton Dyke all right, though.”

  “The point is Granpa met an old man in Newcastle who told him about a ghost here, something to do with the Disaster, as well as ghosts at Penbottle and up on Sloughby Moor. We think he might have come to look.”

  “Listen, I’m not interested in ghosts. I haven’t time for that kind of rubbish.”

  “But Granpa is, and we’re looking for him.”

  “Well try those other two places. He hasn’t been here.”

  “We’ve done that. No dice.”

  “There you are then.”

  “Look,” said Martin, “we’ve got to ask around. It won’t be much use going back to Newcastle and telling the police we only talked to one of you. They’d only have to send a man out specially to ask the rest.”

  The man let out a long, impatient breath.

  “Oh, all right,” he said. “You’ll have to stay this side of the bridge. The buildings are in a dangerous condition, and aren’t insured for anyone except ourselves.”

  “Thanks,” said Martin. Jake relaxed slightly. While he’d been arguing Martin’s voice had become steadily slower a deeper, a sure sign that he felt he was being pushed around and was trying to keep a hold on his temper. Although he’d won his argument, this wasn’t the moment to go putting fresh suspicions into his mind. A mutter of voices gusted on the wind —presumably the man was asking his friends whether they’d seen Granpa, though the rhythm of the phrases was more like a discussion or argument. One of the voices was a woman. After several minutes footsteps sounded again on the planks. This man was heavier, walked with longer strides and wore leather shoes.

  “I hear you’re looking for your grandfather,” said a warm, deep voice.

  “That’s right,” said Martin.

  “Sorry to say we can’t help you. Must be quite a worry for you. I’ve checked with all the students, too. I think one of them would have been bound to see him if he’d come this during daylight.”

  “He’d have come poking around anyway,” said Martin. “He used to be a mining engineer.”

  “Did he now? Then they’d have welcomed him with or arms. Look, let’s go back to the pub and I’ll rustle up a cup of tea and take down a few details. Then we’ll know who to get in touch with supposing your grandfather does turn up. My name’s Jack Andrews. I’m the landlord at the pub.”

  “Oh. Fine,” said Martin. “We’re Martin and Jake Bertold.”

  “Very plucky of you coming all this way to look for old man,” said Mr Andrews. Jake could tell from the slight extra heartiness that he was talking about Jake being blind.

  “How did you know we’d come a long way?” said Martin.

  “Southern accent,” said Mr Andrews with a laugh. “Sticks out like a sore thumb. I make a hobby of guessing where my customers come from during the season. Let’s think. You’ll be somewhere south of London, a bit west but not too far.”

  “Bang on,” said Martin. “Southampton.”

  Mr Andrews laughed again.

  “Police been much help to you?” he said.

  “Not bad,” said Martin. “They took us seriously, which was more than I thought they’d do. They’re checking the hospitals and things, but they let us go and do the ghosts. I suppose that was a bit much to expect of them.”

  “I must say I’d never heard of a ghost here,” said Mr Andrews. “Don’t go spreading it about, or it might be bad for business.”

  “I don’t think it’s in the hotel,” said Martin. “It’s supposed to be in the mine. You’ve heard of the Annerton Dyke Disaster?”

  “Heard of the only bit of history that ever happened in this dump? Course I have. What about it?”

  By the time Martin had finished telling the story they had reached the hotel and Mr Andrews had led them through a side-entrance into one of those stuffy-smelling rooms which you only find in rather crummy hotels, full of a mixed odour of dog and dust and stale tobacco ash. Jake settled into a large armchair upholstered in slippery leather.

  “Not much to go on,” said Mr Andrews with one of his laughs. “Right, tea. May be a bit of time. Depends how hot the kettle is.”

  The door opened and shut.

  “Funny set-up,” said Martin in a low, voice.

  “Yes,” said Jake.

  “You really think so?” said Martin, suddenly tense as a drum-skin.

  “Granpa’s been here. They’ve seen him.”

  “Sure?”

  “About usual.”

  Jake hadn’t meant to say this until they were well away from Annerton. It was so difficult to know how Martin would react. In fact Martin gave a long, shuddering sigh.

  “Listen,” he said. “That first bloke hadn’t heard of the Annerton Dyke Disaster, and he’s supposed to be studying the history of this mine. And we weren’t getting anywhere with him till we said it’d mean a policeman coming out here …”

  “And they both asked about the police,” said Jake.

  “Right. And Mr Andrews knew where we’d come from. And where did that first bloke go?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When he met us he was going somewhere, or at least pretending to. But when he’d gone back to the big shed he didn’t come out again. I think he was a sort of sentry … Look, Jake, we don’t know anything, not even you!”

  Jake frowned and put his finger to his lips.

  “OK,” said Martin in a lower voice. “We won’t say anything here. We’ll go and tell Sergeant Abraham, soon as we get back to Newcastle.”

  Jake heard a slither
and the flutter of paper as Martin picked up a magazine and did his usual fidgety leafing to and fro. Mr Andrews’ footsteps sounded at last in the passage. There was a clink of cups as the door opened.

  “Sorry to be so long,” he said. “Suddenly remembered I had to make a phone call. Now, milk and sugar both of you? Good. Keep the cold out. You wouldn’t care to put up here for the night, would you? The wind’s getting up, and it’s going to be a nasty ride back to Newcastle.”

  “I thought you were full up with the students,” said Martin.

  “Oh, a couple of them can double up.”

  “Oh … very kind of you … what do you think, Jake?”

  “I think we’d better get back to Newcastle,” said Jake slowly. “We don’t want Sergeant Abraham to have to look for us too.”

  “It’s very kind of you, sir …” said Martin.

  “Jack,” said Mr Andrews. “Sir is a dirty word round here. OK, let’s get a few details down. Your grandfather’s name is …”

  He took quite a bit of trouble, but the only new oddity was his little snort of laughter when he discovered that Sergeant Abraham was a woman. He asked several questions about her, and what her exact powers and responsibilities were. He also wanted to know how the boys had heard about the ghost, but made it sound like simple curiosity. Martin had left Mr Smith’s address behind, and Jake decided not to remember it. The tension grew steadily tauter, until Jake almost dropped his cup when he heard a board creak behind him to his right when he was quite certain there was no one there but the three of them. Oh, yes, there must be a connecting door to the next room. There was someone close to it—more than one person … Mr Andrews put his pen down with a snap.

  “OK,” he said in a slightly louder voice. “Let’s go.”

  As Jake stood up, two doors swooshed open and several people rushed into the room. Martin shouted. Crockery rattled to the floor. Amid the thuds Martin’s next shout was muffled into a gulp.

  “Stop it,” said Mr Andrews. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

  For the few seconds it lasted Jake stood perfectly still. His heart was hammering and he longed to yell, but he’d long ago learnt that in playground rough-and-tumbles he was less likely to get hurt if he wasn’t moving. The sound of struggle stilled into panting.

  “Jake’s got the right ideas,” said Mr Andrews. “Now, listen, you two. We can’t let you go for reasons of our own. We’ll have to keep you here for a bit. But I promise you that if you do what you’re told you won’t get hurt. Right, Dave and Jeannie take Jake up to the park. I want to talk to Martin.”

  “Mart, are you all right?” said Jake.

  There was a grunt which might have meant anything. “Let him speak,” said Mr Andrews.

  “You bastards. You bastards,” said Martin. His sobs were fury and not pain.

  “This way,” said a woman. She sounded as though she was speaking through cloth. Cold, firm little fingers took Jake by the wrist.

  “Now, look here …” shouted Martin.

  “I’ll be all right, Mart,” said Jake in a shaky voice.

  As he allowed the woman to lead him through the door he heard another thud and a grunt. Somebody stood on a cup. The woman who was guiding him made a little clicking noise with her tongue like a teacher disapproving of a naughty infant.

  She led him out by the way they had come in, and then round and along the front of the hotel. Automatically Jake counted the paces—twenty-three to the edge of the cobbles, sixty-two along a track gravelled in places with tinkling ash, twelve down a steep slope rutted with car-tracks, nine across a wooden bridge.

  On the far side of the bridge the path sloped steeply up slithery grass, not used enough to be trodden to bare earth. The sea-wind hissed among short tussocks on either side, but its movement was muddled by large, solid shapes, too regular and resonant to be rocks. A taut rope whined. The path twisted. They were moving through the caravan park which Martin had mentioned. After eighty-seven paces the woman stopped. The man, Dave, who hadn’t spoken a word but had walked steadily behind, brushed past. Jake heard, low down and a few feet in front of him, the clank of metal and then a steady, grinding rumble. When it stopped the woman said, “Stand still,” and left Jake. A key clicked, a padlock rattled, hinges squeaked.

  “This way,” said the woman. “Two steps. There. Forward and turn left.”

  Jake climbed the metal steps into a narrow passage, smelling of plastic, rubber-backed carpet, dust, stale bread, butane, an El-san—yes, a caravan. There was another presence there, familiar and comforting as the hallway at home after a wet tramp up from the bus-stop.

  “You’ve got a visitor, Mr Uttery,” said the woman in a bleak, ironic voice.

  Chapter Five

  “Hello Granpa,” said Jake. His voice was a shivering gasp. Since they’d taken him away from Martin he’d managed to control himself, to think, to count paces, to act deliberately passive and feeble. But now he wasn’t on his own any more he almost gave in to the wave of fear-sickness that seemed to rush at him out of nowhere.

  “Jake!” said Granpa. “Why are you here? Are you all right? Have they hurt you?”

  “No. I think they hit Martin, though.”

  “Thumped him a bit,” said the woman in her oddly muffled voice. “No serious damage. Do you want to go to the toilet, Mr Uttery?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Dave’s outside, so don’t do anything stupid.”

  Jake found himself firmly twisted and pushed on to a padded bench, as though the woman were playing with a large doll. Again a chain rattled and a key clicked. Blankets flopped and Granpa got to his feet with a slight groan. He seemed to Jake to come very shakily down the caravan towards the El-san, but he didn’t say anything. On his way back he reached out and patted Jake’s shoulder, his hand brushing past Jake’s cheek as he withdrew it. It was as cold as clay.

  The chain and lock clinked again.

  “Now, you, boy …” began the woman.

  “My name’s Jake.”

  “All right, Jake. Come and stand here. Dave wants to show you something.”

  Jake let her lead him to the centre of the caravan, and stood waiting while she stumped out and down the steps.

  “Same as before?” she muttered. “Just let me get this bloody mask off.”

  “Doesn’t weigh what I do,” said the man. “You may have to help it along. Put your foot on the step. OK?”

  “Right.”

  They pitched their voices below normal hearing, but Jake caught almost every word. The man came up the steps, sat on the bench and shuffled along until he was directly next to where Jake was standing.

  “Ready,” he called.

  There was the same clank as before, followed by the same groaning rumble, only lasting for a shorter time.

  “Hear that?” said the man.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the support-legs being wound up, that end of the caravan. She’s only raised them a couple of inches, but it means that end of the caravan is resting on nothing now. Get it?”

  He had a husky, deep voice like an actor’s. He sounded as though he was enjoying himself, frightening Jake.

  “Yes,” said Jake.

  “Right. Now what’ll happen if you walk down that way?”

  “The caravan will tip over, supposing I’m heavy enough.”

  “Very good. Want to try it?”

  “No.”

  “Go on. Be a dare.”

  “I might bump into something.”

  “I’ll tell you. Forward—march!”

  Timidly Jake shuffled forward, but seething with rage inside. Talking to him like that! Deliberately he shuffled off course. “Right a bit,” purred the man. Jake could feel and hear the open door and the woman standing there. Not far now to the end.

  Metal creaked slightly fro
m the doorway. The floor angle changed. The jar of the support-legs hitting the ground ran up through his bones. He took his cue and staggered slightly.

  “Feel that?” said the man.

  “Yes.”

  “Right. Come back here and it’ll happen again, won’t it?”

  “Yes,” whispered Jake.

  Though he knew more than they thought he did he was still mystified, and though he was aware they were trying to frighten him he couldn’t help being frightened. He shuffled back and felt the floor tilt to its proper angle.

  “Right,” said the man. “When we leave here we’re going to wind those legs right up. Then I’m going to throw a switch outside which connects to a couple of butane cylinders which are stored in a rack under the floor, straight below your Granddad’s bed. There’s another switch, a rocker-switch, in the circuit. If that switch is rocked far enough, like it might be by some stupid boy wandering round inside here and tipping the van over, then whoomp! Up goes the butane, just like a bomb, and what we have is a nasty little caravan accident to show to anybody who comes asking. Course, by the time they got here your Granddad wouldn’t have that chain on his ankle, and the legs’d be wound down, and there wouldn’t be any burnt-up bits of rocker-switch for anybody to find … Got it?”

  “Yes,” whispered Jake. It was a scene in a play. Both of them were acting—the man to scare, Jake to be scared. But he was scared too, for real.

  “Clever boy,” said the man. “Someone’ll bring you tea in about an hour. Be good.”

  The caravan tilted as he strode to the door and settled again as he climbed out. The padlock rattled. The legs rumbled up. Silence, apart from the flap of the wind and the grind of the sea.

  “Oh, Granpa!” whispered Jake.

  “Sorry about this, Jake. Come down this way. There’s a bench just across from my bunk.”

  Jake found it and settled, automatically reaching out a hand as he did so to take Granpa’s. Granpa’s grip was firm enough, but his flesh was like ice.