The River Dark

by Nicholas Bennett

  Nervous adrenalin flooded in to his veins.

  He was on his own. Solo. No buddy, no surface buddy, just himself. That was just fine too. He had spent much of his adult life alone, a confirmed bachelor, happy in his own company and routines. He had lived with a woman for a few months a few years before but that had proved to be disastrous. He was used to his own ways. He didn't like the intrusion into his world. It was his fault he knew. The first night alone after she had left, the overwhelming feeling had been one of relief. It wasn't that he didn't like women, he did; he simply didn't like sharing that was the problem. He would give his last penny to a friend but that wasn't the issue. It was beyond the material. The issue was time, experience. There were times in his co-habitation when he felt that his quality of life had decreased considerably, his pleasures seemed diluted, his routines petty. It was not long before he noticed the disdainful looks at the clockwork regularity of his days; she seemed to mock his health conscience ways, his predictable diet, the disappearances into the garage to push weights for half-an-hour twice an evening. In his darker moments, Davies feared that perhaps they even knew his secret.

  And that made him nervous because it was a particularly unpleasant secret.

  Davies had followed the beam of his flashlight through the thinneys of Ross's Forest with quiet assurance. The weight of the cylinder and the holdall did not slow him; the years of pumping iron had paid off in dividends. At one point, Davies had halted and listened closely. He thought he had heard a girl's laugh echoing through the trees. He may have done he thought but carried on; night and the trees did funny things to sound. He remained cautious though. He did not want to be seen. No-one could know what he was doing. Having been refused permission to dive the tunnels by the Church, what he was about to do was tantamount to trespass. Fuck that though. As President of The History Society, he had approached the church council and requested permission to dive the underwater tunnels below the abbey ruins. For centuries speculation had surrounded the site. Stories of treasures secreted there before the King's soldiers could ransack the chapels for gold accompanied the inevitable ghostly hooded figure tales that his students relished. Some even involved the abbey ruins in The Holy Grail legends but that was ridiculous he thought. Davies wasn't bothered about treasures and legends; he would be satisfied with a few scraps of paper that could be carbon dated in order to prove the validity of his claims. If he found anything worthy of note down there, he planned to write an article for History Today, maybe even a book. What harm could a bit of research do? Besides, he reasoned, the abbey is part of our heritage.

  He’d moved through the woods towards the sound of the weir, disregarding the tinkling giggle from the trees. He was well aware of what the local kids called this place.

  Fuck Forest. Charming but apt.

  The laugh had sounded a little like Patsy, one of his students, she of the uncommonly large breasts. Other thoughts entered his mind then. He had pushed them away.

  He knew all too well where those thoughts led.

  The path had opened out into a clearing and then the river bank. The railway bridge stood off to the right; a silhouette against the dark blue night sky. He’d headed downstream, skirting the wooded area, staying in the shadows. There were riverboats and barges moored at intervals along the bank along with the possibility of night fisherman. He did not want to be seen. When he had passed the weir, he abandoned the safety of the tree line and walked along the riverbank. No boats were moored there and there was nowhere to fish; the water's edge was all reeds and mud as result of the constant cascade downstream. The occasional fisherman would venture out onto the weir, good for trout fishing, but there were none tonight. On the opposite bank of the river there was the outline of the scrap yard. Soon the smell of the food factory drifted across from Open Farms. Every townie had worked there at one time or another. The signs of industry soon faded along with sound of the weir. There was nothing but farmland beyond the abbey and the scattered remains of the village that had grown up to supply and serve the holy men; it had been abandoned in the middle ages as a result of superstition, he knew. Now it was only good for the occasional field trip from the High School. Ankle high signs of civilization.

  Davies craned his neck out the water and spotted the arched gateway to the abbey grounds, the ancient masonry a grey monolith against the darkness. The grounds were now nothing more than broken walls and leaning masonry stacks, the last stubborn clues that there had once been an edifice of vast, intricate design far away from the centre of the Catholic Church, a worthy rival to Canterbury Cathedral.

  And now he floated underwater inches from the entrance to the forbidden tunnel itself.

  Again he checked his breathing until he felt calm. He examined the arched entrance closely; it was almost circular with a diameter of two metres. He would be able to guide himself through with his fingers; he found his gloves in a breast pocket and put them on for protection against jagged edges. He gathered himself; trying to think that it was exhilaration he felt, not its sister, fear.

  Flutter kick, he told himself, keep your legs at 90 degrees. Keep them away from the bottom and glided into the tunnel, his left hand tapping the curved wall beneath his torso.

  He pulled himself along with relative ease. At times he hardly had to move his feet at all. The current alone was enough to guide him through. The feel of the ancient brickwork, even through his gloves, was slick with years of God only knew what, caked to the walls. The flashbeam, quivering in his hand, revealed nothing but the smooth curve of the tunnel; he was thirty metres in and there had been no sign of any intersecting tunnelways.

  Before long, his imagination began to put shadowy forms at the edge of the light cast by his torch. A spectral hand out of the gloom perhaps. A face with eyes eaten by fish following.

  He felt the beginnings of panic; he was alone in the dark underneath thousands of tonnes of soil and rock. No-one knew he was there and he had no idea of what was down there with him.

  Shut up, he told himself, concentrating on steady breathing; you're acting like a child. But it was true; he was alone in the increasingly dark and cold past.

  Past? He shook himself in the gloom. He didn’t want to think about that.

  This was wrong. He shouldn't be down here. He should get out. He rotated his body carefully and examined the tunnel above his head. One collapse in that ancient brickwork was all it would take and he had seen enough evidence of such crumblings all along the passage to know that it could happen. The morbid voice of self-pity whispered in the dark. What if he did die down here? He didn't think he'd be missed all that much. That was one of the features of a self-imposed solitary existence: who would miss you when you were gone?

  He moved his fins in a gentle flutter movement. Calm, calm, calm, he thought.

  His colleagues thought he was weird, he knew that. A strange one with no desire for human warmth. Asexual perhaps. Davies wasn't concerned about that, he had seen too many relationships form for the same, sad old reason: the fundamental weakness of the human spirit, the dependency syndrome that saw so many remarry, move in with others, embark on an existence of alcohol soaked one-night stands and for what? Because people were too weak, too insecure to spend some time alone. Besides- when you were alone it was easier to do what you wanted to do. It was easier to-

  -hide things when you were alone.

  Davies' breathing was easier now, the anxiety had passed. He smiled inwardly, knowing that it was inevitable that somehow he would suffer some panic; night diving could be fraught with anxiety as visibility is reduced to a narrow beam of light and shadows move around ominously. He'd seen a fellow diver suffer the effects of neurosis and it had all been induced by anxiety; a state of mind that could be controlled by breathing control, meditation and mental strength.

  In his reverie he almost glided by the opening to his left.

  He hovered at the mouth of the new opening, checked the tension on his guide rope and shone the light into the v
oid. More ancient masonry had crumbled- fairly recently by the look of it- and the water was thick with floating debris and dust. This opening was of a lesser diameter, he observed. Should have worn the tank on my side he thought. It’s getting a bit too tight down here.

  The safety conscious diver would turn back now. He resigned himself to doing just that when he felt the pull.

  Not a physical pull exactly, more of a gentle tug somewhere inside his head. A fish taking an experimental nibble of the bait causing the line to-

  -twitch-

  -and there it was again!

  He shook his head, inadvertently causing river water to get into his mask. He cleared the mask by looking upwards and blowing through his nostrils. He checked his air. Still 150 bar plus. No problem there.

  You're scared that's all, he told himself, and who wouldn't be? It’s as black as midnight in a coalmine in here and unexplored for over five hundred years. A little fear was natural the voice of reason soothed, there's probably nothing in there but more water and a few lost fish.

  Don't be stupid. Come back when you're better prepared.

  More fear. Natural but unnecessary, the voice argued. Relax, breathe.

  This is how people die needlessly. Do you really think that if your tank is damaged beyond adjustment you could swim out? How long has it taken you to get this far? Ten minutes?

  What damage? Just go easy. If it gets too much, turn back. You'll be fine.

  In the end, what made him go on was not the voice of reason but the belief that this was what separated him from everyone else he knew. He would always go the extra mile. There was a grittiness that went well beyond stubbornness. All of his adult life he had refused to turn away from the coldness that others would spend their lifetime avoiding at any cost.

  He was not afraid of being alone in the dark. Andrew Davies, confirmed bachelor, teacher of History, part-time adventurer, headed into the darkness because he was not afraid of being alone in the dark. He had known darkness before. He had embraced his own personal darkness many times. And as he drifted into the ancient pipe under the guidance of what good sense would have told him was an inexplicable current, he ignored the instinctive flight mechanism to his detriment.

  Davies drifted towards his own darkness.

  2

  Brighton

  January 15th 2001

  1.28am

  Weaver kicked the fish ‘n’ chip papers away from his ankles and braced himself against an icy blast from the channel. January in Brighton was bitterly cold especially in the small hours. Not to mention the fact that he was inappropriately dressed. He had on a biker leather with only a t-shirt beneath, threadbare black jeans and Converse pumps. It had seemed the ideal getup when he'd left for the studio that afternoon. Besides, the studio was warm. The sculptor he was sharing the space with wouldn't have it any other way. He was obsessive about the heat. Being stoned half of the time, he didn't tend to move around a great deal. Weaver couldn't remember the last time he saw Paul sans blanket as he worked at the minutiae of his latest fantasy. At least he was working on something though. In fact, Paul was doing a roaring trade in Lord of the Rings figurines; all unlicensed, sold to small shops and seafront stalls and to a number of the many hippy-shit shops along the south coast. At least he was sort of making his own way, Weaver reasoned.

  Paul had even suggested that he might stop signing on if he continued to make such good money. But they both knew that to be something of an exaggeration.

  Weaver stopped in the shelter of a shop doorway and lit a cigarette. It warmed his hands briefly. He watched two twenty-somethings totter by on heels clutching at each other around the waist as they shared a pissed up joke. They were scantily clad for the weather and oblivious, still alcohol warm from the nearest late license bar. Weaver hadn't had a drink for over a year. Addictive tendencies- couldn’t do moderation.

  He followed the progress of the two girls until they came to a fire escape attached to one of the Regency blocks on Second Avenue. Weaver watched with amusement as they clumsily climbed the escape before sliding open a sash window. They shared a passionate, open mouthed kiss before climbing inside. Only in Brighton he thought dimly. The fire escape triggered a half-memory and was gone before it had fully formed. Metal struts and girders.

  That happened a lot these days.

  He was a dreamer. He always had been. He’d often drift off in to other realms, sometimes musing on ideas for paintings sometimes just floating in an aimless fashion. He often sensed things on the periphery of his vision that he could never see. He'd turn and they'd be gone, if they had ever been there in the first place. It stemmed from childhood, from a time when he had remained in his room for a very long time with nothing but paper and his imagination to help him through the days. Weaver didn’t need artificial aids. If anything it hampered his creativity. Paul often suggested LSD as an aid to creativity; a good trip might blow the cobwebs away Paul posited. Might get the old creative juices flowing again. He had politely declined.

  Addictive tendencies.

  Fuck, it's cold.

  Nearly home.

  He ducked into a poorly lit alleyway between a franchised French-themed coffee shop and a 7-Eleven. This was the underbelly; the filthy arse-end of bohemian coffee shops and exotic food outlets. He often saw rats foraging among the bins while the foreign waiters, cooks and cleaners talked, smoked and nudged each other as he passed by. You could be anywhere in the world, he often thought. New York, Bangkok, Mexico City, Hong Kong. In the six months he'd lived on the second floor flat above a ground-floor patisserie and a dodgy mail order book company on the first floor, he'd seen enough of the seedy side to become blasé. Someone buying drugs here, a fuck against the wall there. But it was the violence of the area that really bothered him. Nothing dramatic tonight, thankfully.

  He passed between several large metallic bins and struggled as always to open the heavy door leading to the stairwell. He felt more apprehension of late as a result of the acts of violence associated with this area. The worst beating he had witnessed involved three teenagers breaking the forearms of a middle-aged man. Those charming young men had used golf clubs. Weaver had company that night in the form of Mad Mick (so-called because he'd spent numerous spells in Brighton's psychiatric institutions- always self-admitted). Mad Mick had chased the yoofs off with something that amounted to enjoyment as far as Weaver could see. The victim had been mugged. He had knelt by the sobbing man trying not to look at his mangled arms and tried to talk to him up to the moment the ambulance arrived. His name was Charlie. Nice fellow. A musician. He wouldn't be playing the blues again for a while though.

  He located the timer light switch, pressed it, locked the door behind him and headed for the stairs that led up to his place. He savoured the residual aroma of baked bread and homemade soup from Centre Ville on the ground floor, a constant at this time of year. It was a cool place to live he thought as he headed up the first flight. They sometimes left unsold fresh bread or bagels for him at the end of the day. He was considering the possibility of such a gift tonight when he heard the footsteps on the next flight.

  There was someone in here with him.

  He stopped mid-flight. He was the only one with access to this entrance after dark. The footsteps above continued for a moment and then also came to a halt. Weaver held his breath, the pulse of hot adrenalin filling his head. He stared straight ahead. There was someone on the stairwell with him. Doing what? Waiting? He listened hard. Whoever it was listened too.

  Weaver thought he could hear breathing from above. He gathered his resolve. He called up the stairwell.

  "Hello?"

  No reply. His voice had sounded weak to his own ears. He tried again, keeping his voice steady.

  "Listen mate, you're trespassing."

  Nothing.

  "I'll call the police."

  Then what sounded like quiet, stifled laughter. Weaver held his breath, clenching the balustrade with a white-knuckled left hand.
<
br />   A minute click. The lights went out. The timer!

  Weaver moved then. He made the ground floor in three leaps despite the darkness, and without fear of injury. In his heightened state brought about by the terror of being in the dark, he heard footsteps hammering down from the flight above. He bounced off the wall at the foot of the steps hard enough to knock the wind out of his lungs and careered towards the door. The locked door. Shit! He hit the light switch as he tugged the keys out his pocket. He dropped them on the floor, daring to glance at the corner of the stairs once. No sign of anyone. He listened for the footsteps as he fumbled with the lock.

  Whoever it was had stopped.

  They're trying to frighten me he thought and turned the key in the lock. The door opened. He glanced back again.

  Still nothing.

  As he pushed through the door and felt the freezing sea wind once more he heard again the same quiet laughter.