But the creature, the thing in the Pit. Was that inside Jake? He called it a creature, but was it his own creation, a dweller in the maze of his being? How would he ever know? The more hours that passed, the further south they went, the less likely it seemed that it had any existence outside his own mind. He could no longer be sure that he wasn’t inventing details. He hadn’t once been able to reshape in his memory the act of “seeing” the glowing tunnel or the crawling blob—himself—at its end. All he was left with was one last flutter of contact.
It had been the cry of a gull that woke him. The wind off the sea was shrilling between thick-set twigs. He was lying in a sleeping-bag.
“Granpa? Martin?” he whispered.
“They’re all right, Jake,” said a woman’s voice. “How’re you feeling?”
“Sergeant Abraham! Martin found you! Where is he?”
“Talking to the Superintendent over by the cliff. He wouldn’t leave you till I turned up. And your grandfather’s in an ambulance on his way to hospital. You lie still. We’ll have you moved away from here in a jiffy. How are things going, Mr Cowran?”
For answer, veined down the threshing wind, came a new noise. Jake had heard it before, but only on TV and radio. It was an automatic weapon firing three short bursts. Close by, a man muttered into a walkie-talkie. A helicopter bumbled overhead.
“Stupid git,” said the man. “We’ve got most of them, no fuss, but there’s two or three holed up in a sort of shed against the cliff. Better hang on a bit longer, Sergeant, just make sure we’re not in anyone’s line of fire.”
He returned to his walkie-talkie.
“What happened?” asked Jake.
“Oh, we were lucky,” said Sergeant Abraham. “I was a bit worried when I got Martin’s message about you going north of a sudden—somehow it didn’t seem like you. Then things started coming together, the way they do when police-work’s going right. I got a report of your granddad getting off a bus at Annerton, and when I wanted to send a man up here to ask questions my chief told me to lay off. I found your Mr Smith, too, so we asked around Sloughby and Penbottle. Yes, you’d been there, but there wasn’t any trace of you going north, where Martin said. It all stopped at Annerton, and the high- ups warned me off again. They were dead interested, though. You see, there’s been a big police operation going on, looking for these people, and Annerton was one of the places we were watching—not me, of course—I don’t work at that level. But when I started putting in reports and requests they knew something was going on, and soon. We weren’t quite ready to move, but we got a section up here disguised as a road repair team. So there they were, digging a dirty great hole in the road and pretending to like it, when Martin crawled out of the fields into their arms, with his face all covered with blood.”
“Blood?”
“Just scratches. There’s a thicket round the top of this shaft like you never saw. My guess is when they shut the mine they planted a thorn-hedge round it and it’s grown and grown. It took Martin half an hour to wriggle his way out, and it took our men that long to cut their way in to come and find you. We can’t leave it like this. It’s dead dangerous. The army are going to cave it in when we’ve finished here … Scuse me …”
The soles of her shoes creaked as she rose. Her skirt rustled away. Find me, thought Jake. Where did they find me? Martin would take them straight to Granpa. After that they’d look for me. Was I still at the bottom of the ladder, where I fell? Or did I really crawl to the main shaft? He eased a hand up to feel the chest of his anorak. It was musty damp, not soaking. If he’d really lain face down in the stream by the rock-fall … It must have been a dream. Only a dream.
The man with the walkie-talkie was making quacking noises of disgust and disbelief. With another rustle and creak Sergeant Abraham crouched down beside Jake.
“Listen,” she said in an urgent voice. “Did you meet a man who called himself Andrews?”
“Yes. He was the boss. Why?”
“There were three of them holding out. The other two have come out with a message. They say that Andrews …”
He didn’t hear the rest. His attention was blanked out by a sudden shudder of excitement, too fierce and brief for him to tell whether it was agony or thrill. That happened first, he was sure of it, just as he was sure that it came from outside him. Then came the explosion.
It reached him through the air and the ground and the mine in a confused hurl of noises and vibrations—one sharp, enormous slap followed by a booming rumble. A gust of heavy, dead mine-smell whooshed into the clean dawn. The grumble of tumbling cliff drowned out the grumble of the sea. Those noises ended, but still from below came the boom of falling rock. Somewhere down there Mr Andrews, unable to kill for his cause, had deliberately died for it, and at the same time, not knowing what he was doing, he had begun to close the wound of Annerton Pit.
Dyingly the air moved up the shaft as the last compression of the explosion eased itself out of the maze of galleries below. To Jake it sounded like a whispering sigh of content.
A Biography of Peter Dickinson
Peter Dickinson is a tall, elderly, bony, beaky, wrinkled sort of fellow, with a lot of untidy gray hair and a weird, hooting voice—in fact, he looks and sounds a bit like Gandalf’s crazy twin, but he’s just rather absentminded, thinking about something else, or daydreaming.
He was born in the middle of Africa, within earshot of the Victoria Falls. Baboons sometimes came into the school playground. When people went swimming in the Zambezi they did it in a big wooden cage let down into the water so that the crocs couldn’t get at them. For the hot weather the family went south to his grandfather’s sheep and ostrich farm in South Africa.
When Peter was seven the family came back to England so that he and his brothers could go to English schools, where they taught him mostly Latin and Greek. He didn’t have an English lesson after he was twelve, and nobody ever told him to write a story. He was fairly good at games.
He’s led an ordinary kind of life—not much by way of adventures, but some silly things. Such as? Well, when he had to join the army just after World War II, they managed to turn him into two people, so he was bashing away at infantry training at a camp in Northern Ireland when two seasick military policemen showed up and tried to arrest him for being a deserter from a different camp in the South of England, where his other self was supposed to be bashing away.
He was tutoring a boy in a huge old castle in Scotland when the butler (it was that sort of household) said to him at breakfast one day, “Ah, sir, it’s a long time since we heard screams coming from the West Wing!” (Peter’s screams, not the boy’s.)
And he was knocked down by a tram on his way to the interview for his first job with the magazine Punch and arrived all covered with blood and dirt, but they gave him the job because he was the only candidate. He stayed there seventeen years.
He and his first wife had two daughters and two sons, and he now has six grandchildren. He and his second wife, the American writer Robin McKinley, live in an almost-too-pretty country town in the South of England.
Peter says he didn’t become a writer. He just is one and always has been, ever since he can remember, the way a goldfish is a goldfish and can’t be anything else. Go to a zoo and look at one of the big birds, a condor, say, a creature made to soar above the Andes. They’ve probably clipped one of its wings so that it can’t hurt itself trying to fly around its cage, but it’s still a creature made to soar above the Andes. If you somehow stopped Peter writing, he’d still be a writer.
But he was a poet and a journalist before he started on books. He tried a murder story first, but got stuck halfway through. Then he had a science fiction–y kind of nightmare and decided to turn it into a children’s story, mainly to see if writing it would unstick the other book. (It did. That book won a prize for the best murder story of the year, and the children’s book was made into a TV se
ries.)
Since then Peter has written almost sixty books, most of them on a little old portable typewriter—one draft to see what he’s got and what else he needs to know and so on, then a bit of research, then a complete rewrite, beginning to end, and then, if all’s well, only a bit more tinkering. Sometimes it used to take a few months, sometimes a year or more. A few years back he moved over to a PC. It makes writing seem a very different kind of process—easier in some ways, harder in others.
The ideas come from all over the place—daydreams, sometimes, or a kid on a long car trip saying, “Tell us a new story, Dad.” Or something he’s heard or read—a voice on the radio saying, “Even a hardened government soldier may hesitate a fatal half second before he guns down a child.” For the best of them it feels as if the book had knocked on the door of Peter’s mind and said, “Write me.” Then he’ll spend half a year or more letting the stranger in and finding out who or what it is.
Peter has written all sorts of books—crime mainly for adults, though some of these are almost straight literary novels. For children, he has written fantasies, historical fiction, modern adventure, science fiction, and so on. There won’t be many more. They used to come gushing out of the hillside like a mountain stream. Then he had to lift them up bucket by bucket from deeper and deeper wells, but now the wells are empty. He says.
Peter Dickinson was the second of four sons of a British colonial civil servant and a South African farmer’s daughter, born December 16, 1927, in the middle of Africa, in Livingstone, Northern Rhodesia (now Zambia).
Here are Peter and his brother Richard as children in Africa, where many of Peter’s books take place. In fact, he used this photo as a pivotal clue in Perfect Gallows.
The family came “home” in 1935 so that the boys could go to British boarding schools, but within a few months, when Peter was seven, their father died suddenly of a strangulated gut, leaving their mother with very little money. Their British relations were close knit and supportive, and in 1936 Peter was sent to Saint Ronan’s, a prep school in Worthing with a charismatic headmaster named Dick Harris. Pictured here are Peter (in the red jersey), age eight, with his mother, elder brother, Richard, and younger brother Hugh.
This is a photo taken in 1936 during a family holiday at Stutton. The Fisons had been very good friends with Peter’s father and stayed close to his family after his death. They invited the Dickinsons to stay with them for several vacations at their house on one of the Suffolk inlets. They would spend most of the day in boats on a local pond or on the nearby beach. Here you can see the kids lined up on the beach from tallest to shortest. From left to right: Elizabeth Fison, Peter’s brother Richard, Peter, Gay Fison, and Peter’s youngest brother, David. Peter doesn’t remember why his brother Hugh is not in this picture. Perhaps he was taking the photo.
Here’s a picture from 1937. One of Peter’s aunts had a home on the Sussex coast at Littlestone, and Peter’s family used to go there during school vacations. Peter remembers that they used to play a lot of games there, including a family version of hide-and-seek. Here you can see them taking a break for some ice cream. From left to right: Peter’s cousin Anthony Butterwick, Richard, Peter, and Hugh. David was too young then to play these sorts of games.
When the German invasion of England looked imminent, St. Ronan’s was evacuated to Bicton Park, a great red-brick Georgian house in the idyllic setting of a large deer park in Devon. Peter’s novel Hindsight is based on his time here. The curriculum was mainly Latin, Greek, and math, with some French, history, and geography, and only one English class a week. Peter was never asked to write a story, either while at St. Ronan’s or later.
In 1941 Peter took the scholarship exam for Eton against the advice of Dick Harris, who thought he wasn’t up to it. But his math score saved him, even though he was the bottom scholar in a bad year, just as his father had been, and he was accepted. After an uncertain start at Eton, Peter enjoyed his time there. He turned out to be fairly good at the bizarre versions of soccer they played, and was elected to Pop, the equally bizarre society of school prefects chosen not by the authorities but by the students themselves.
In 1948 Peter went to King’s College, Cambridge, on a closed exhibition (a minor sort of scholarship, exclusive to Etonians). He feels he wasted his time there and worked ineffectually, having taken little part in the many extracurricular activities on offer. After a year he switched from classics to English studies. He failed to get the hoped-for first in his finals, but the college gave him a bursary to study for a PhD. Halfway through this, he walked into the dean’s office. The dean looked up from the letter he was reading and asked, “Would you like a job on Punch?”
Peter Dickinson at an editorial meeting at Punch in the early 1950s. (Photo credit: Picture Post, Bert Hardy)
Peter and Mary Rose Barnard (1926–1988) were married at Bramdean, Hampshire, on April 26, 1953. She was the daughter of a naval officer who was senior enough to ride a white horse along with the other Lords of the Admiralty in the coronation procession for Queen Elizabeth. Peter and Mary set up house in an apartment in Pimlico, he continuing at Punch and she working in the display department of Heal’s furniture store.
In 1955 Philippa Dickinson was born at Wingrave, near Aylesbury, Bucks; Polly arrived thirteen months later in a small house behind Harrods in London; John came five years after that; and James followed eighteen months after John in the terrace house in Notting Dale, London, where the family lived for the next twenty years. Here the family is pictured at the weekend cottage on a hill above Crondall, Hampshire, with a marvelous view northeastward over the village and across miles of countryside. This is the setting for The Devil’s Children, the third book in the Changes Trilogy.
Peter loved reading to his children at bedtime and carried on doing so long after they learned to read for themselves. Here he is reading to John and James in 1967.
Peter’s author photo from the jacket of The Seventh Raven, taken by Faye Godwin in 1981.
In 1990 Peter was asked to give a talk at a conference in Boston and arranged to take advantage of the free Atlantic flights by seeing various people in New York the following week. Vastly underestimating the distances involved, he invited himself to stay with Robin McKinley, author of The Red Magician, in Maine for the intervening weekend. The result was like a car accident, changing lives. Within ten days of his return, they had arranged by telephone that she would lease her house and come and live with him in England. They married on January 3, 1991.
Peter and Robin love traveling with their dogs. They have often explored the outer fringes of the British Isles, taking the dogs with them.
Peter’s wonderful family during Christmas in 2002.
In 2009 Peter was appointed an Officer of the Order of the British Empire for services to children’s literature in the Queen’s birthday honors list.
Peter currently resides in southern England with Robin. He now has six grandchildren.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Mimi Bark
978-1-5040-0294-3
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Annerton Pit Page 16