by Shaun Hutson
The air was turning blue.
A thick haze of diesel fumes hung over the men and machines like a man-made fog bank. Thick and noxious.
The roar of powerful engines mingled with the screech of caterpillar tracks as a number of large earth-movers rumbled across the landscape, flattening or digging according to their individual function.
Frank King watched approvingly as a JCB was manoeuvred into position, its great metal arm swinging down to scoop up a mound of earth which it then dumped into the back of a waiting lorry. The driver was sitting contentedly in the cab smoking and he waved to King as the foreman passed, unable to hear King’s comment about ‘not straining himself because of the roar of machinery.
Away to his right, King could see a group of men laying tarmac. Despite the chill in the air they worked in shirt-sleeves. Sweat was soaking through their clothes from the heat given off by the red-hot tar.
The Leisure Centre itself was all but finished. An ‘E’ shaped two storey building, it looked like something a child might fashion from plastic blocks. Painters still swarmed over it like so many overall-clad termites, only these termites were busy applying coats of weather-proof paint.
King stood a moment longer surveying the activity, then turned and headed towards the yellow Portakabin close by. On entering he moved across to the welcoming warmth of a calor-gas heater and held his hands over it, meanwhile trying to catch the tail end of the phone conversation one of his colleagues was engaged in.
John Kirkland was nodding as he held the phone, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish as he struggled to get a word in. Finally he held the receiver slightly away from his ear and cupped a hand over the mouthpiece. He looked up at King and shook his head as if signalling defeat. The other foreman smiled. Another three or four minutes and Kirkland replaced the phone.
‘Jesus,’ he muttered.
‘Cutler?’ King asked, grinning.
‘Who else do you know who can talk non-stop for twenty minutes flat?’ Kirkland said, picking up his mug of tea. He sipped it, wincing when he found that it was cold.
‘What did he want?’
‘The usual. “Is everything going according to schedule? Are we going to be finished on time?” I don’t know why he doesn’t move his fucking desk out here so he can sit and watch, at least it’d save him ringing up so often.’
Frank King chuckled and poured his colleague a hot mug of tea, repeating the action for himself.
‘I don’t know what he’s worried about,’ Kirkland said. ‘We’re ahead of schedule if anything.’ He sipped some tea. ‘Anyway, Cutler reckons he’s coming out here this afternoon to have a look for himself. He said something about flattening that wood.’ Kirkland tapped the map which lay on the table before him. ‘He wants to build on the land, extend the project.’
King peered through the window of the portakabin, rubbing some grime away with his index finger. He could see the wood that Kirkland meant. It was a mile or so to the east of the main site, on a slight rise.
‘It’s more work, John,’ he said. ‘None of us can turn our noses up at that.’
‘I’m not arguing with you, but things are going to get a bit crowded around here soon,’ he said, taking a sip of his tea. ‘I mean, there’s that archaeological dig going on over there.’ He motioned to his left, to the west. ‘They’ve been at it for a while too. Knowing Cutler, I’m surprised he hasn’t offered to build them a bloody museum.’
King laughed, his eyes drawn once’ more to the dark outcrop of trees which grew so thickly to the east.
The wood looked like a stain against the green of the hills.
Four
It was Kim who felt the tremor first.
She felt a slight vibration beneath her feet and for a moment she paused, looking up at Phillip Swanson, who seemed not to have noticed the movement. He was more concerned with unearthing a gold receptacle from the floor of the trench in which they both crouched. Kim waited a second longer, then began to help Swanson.
‘It’s gold,’ he said excitedly. ‘Some kind of ornamental bowl.’
They had uncovered the top half of the container when the second tremor came.
‘Did you feel that?’ Kim asked, pressing the palm of one hand to the earth.
Swanson nodded distractedly, apparently uninterested.
No more than ten yards away from them, a small rift opened in the earth.
Loose dirt and gravel immediately began to tumble into the crack, which was widening with alarming speed and extending lengthwise along the trench they were working in.
It was now less than six yards from them.
Swanson dug carefully beneath the bowl, freeing it from the last clods of earth which held it captive.
The crack in the ground was widening, yawning a full six feet across now and still lengthening.
There was another vibration, so violent it rocked Kim on her heels, causing her to overbalance. As she fell to one side she saw the rent in the earth, now only two or three feet from them.
She shouted a warning to Swanson but it was too late.
It was as if the bottom of the trench had simply fallen away. The crack opened like a hungry mouth and Kim realized with horror that she was falling.
Swanson too began slipping into the crack, which was now a gaping wound across the land.
Kim clutched frantically at the side of the trench, digging her fingers into the earth in a desperate effort not to fall. There was nothing beneath her feet and she gritted her teeth, trying to force from her mind thoughts of how deep the hole might be. Swanson also grabbed onto the ledge of hard ground and felt his feet dangling in empty air. An icy cold blast of wind erupted from below them and Kim sucked in an almost painful breath, fearing that the sudden uprush might cause her to lose her grip.
But now others were running to their aid. She saw Cooper sprinting toward the side of the trench. He dropped to his knees and thrust a hand down to her. Beside him another man, whom she didn’t recognize, was shining a torch past her down into the hole, trying to see just how deep it was.
The light was swallowed up by the impenetrable blackness.
The rift which had opened was obviously much deeper than anyone could have guessed.
‘Take my hand,’ Cooper urged, but Kim dared not release her grip on the earth ledge for fear of falling. Her boots dug into the sides of the hole but only succeeded in dislodging some pieces of rock. From the amount of time they took to hit the bottom it was painfully obvious that the hole was deep enough to cause serious injury, if not death, should either she or Swanson fall.
‘Somebody get a rope,’ yelled Cooper, straining to reach Kim’s hand.
She felt his powerful hand close over her wrist, and with lightning speed she gripped his forearm and clung tightly. He tried to pull her up, two of his colleagues holding onto him to prevent him from toppling head first into the black chasm.
The veins on his forehead bulged as he used all his strength to haul her up, inch by inch.
The wall of the trench started to collapse.
Just small pieces of earth at first, then great lumps of it began to fall past Kim, some of the fragments striking her as they disappeared into the gaping maw which had now opened out into an almost circular pit.
Cooper almost overbalanced, his grip on Kim’s wrist loosening for an instant.
She screamed as she slipped an inch or two, but Cooper regained his grip and began once more to haul her up the crumbling wall of the trench.
Behind her, Swanson was muttering to himself, struggling to retain a hand-hold on earth that was crumbling beneath his frantic fingers.
A spade was lowered to him and someone shouted to him to grab the handle but he was afraid to release his hold on the ledge. His heart was hammering against his ribs, the perspiration running in great salty rivulets down his face. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, screwing them up until pain began to gnaw at his forehead.
A lump of earth the size of a
fist came loose and hit him on the top of the head.
He lost his grip.
A woman standing on the side of the trench screamed as the archaeologist flailed with one hand, trying desperately to regain his hold.
Kim heard his shout of terror as he sensed he was slipping away. She tightened her grip on Cooper’s hand as he slowly dragged her upper body clear of the hole, aware that the trench wall would not hold out much longer.
His foot slipped and he almost overbalanced, but strong arms held him upright and he continued to drag Kim out.
Her legs finally cleared the hole and with one last surge of strength, Cooper pulled her completely clear. Both of them fell back onto the earth, which was still crumbling beneath them. They rolled away, seeking firmer footing. Kim could hardly get her breath but she clambered to her feet and looked round.
‘Help me!’ shrieked Swanson, now clutching at the spade which was offered to him. He closed one desperate hand over the wooden shaft and clung on, knowing that his life depended on it.
His would-be rescuers kept trying to drag him up but his full weight, now dangling helplessly over the pit, was too much for them.
‘Where’s that bloody rope?’ shouted Cooper, running to get it from one of his colleagues. He fashioned it into a makeshift loop, then lowered it towards Swanson.
‘Put your arm through the loop,’ he bellowed as the other end was secured to a tree stump.
Swanson did as he was told, though he hardly needed prompting. He grabbed the rope and tried to haul himself up.
Kim watched helplessly as three of the archaeologists pulled on the rope. Slowly, inch by inch, they started dragging Swanson clear.
Picking up a torch, Kim shone it into the pit and saw that the hole was cylindrical, a tube of earth with smooth sides. She daren’t guess how deep it was.
Swanson was more than half clear of the pit when the rope began to fray.
At first a handful of strands sprang from the hemp, then more.
Swanson heard a creak as it unravelled quickly.
‘No!’ he shrieked as the final strands came undone.
The men holding the rope tried to pull him up faster and flailing hands tried to catch him, but it was too late.
With a scream of fear he plummetted from sight into the pit, his shout reverberating inside the shaft.
Kim closed her eyes, waiting for the thud as he hit the bottom.
It never came.
Instead, everyone near the pit froze as Swanson’s shout suddenly changed into a bellow of unimaginable agony. The sound, amplified by the shaft, was like a slap in the face.
‘Oh, God murmured Kim, peering down into the darkness. But she could see nothing.
The darkness of the pit hid his body from sight.
Had he broken his back? Shattered his legs? Perhaps his skull had been pulped by the fall?
Stunned by that roar of agony, the other archaeologists, too, stood gazing helplessly into the enveloping blackness.
Now they all felt an icy breeze which seemed to rise from the pit. With it came a choking smell, a pungent odour of decay which made Kim cover her nose and mouth. She looked at Cooper, but he could only shake his head, wondering, like the others, what fate had befallen Swanson.
Had he known the truth he would have been glad that he could not see the body.
Five
The lights on the two police cars and the ambulance turned silently, casting red and blue splashes of colour onto the faces of the people gathered around the deadly pit.
No one spoke, and the whole scene reminded Kim of an extract from a silent film. She stood close to Cooper, a mug of tea cradled in her hands, but the warm fluid was doing little to drive the chill from her bones. What she was feeling was not induced by the cold wind. It was the icy embrace of fear and shock, and it gripped her tighter every time she looked at the hole into which Swanson had fallen.
A couple of policemen were busy constructing a winch beside the pit, watched by the crowd of onlookers. Kim brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face, noticing that her hand was still shaking.
Cooper placed an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close in a gesture which suggested concern rather than affection.
She took another sip of her tea and glanced across the open ground towards a grey Sierra which was bouncing awkwardly over the dips and gulleys in the earth as it approached the other vehicles. Kim watched as it came to a halt and the driver climbed out.
He was tall, dressed in a suit which was stretched almost too tightly across his broad chest and back. His dark hair was uncombed and he ran a hand through it as he slammed the car door. A uniformed man approached the car and said something which Kim couldn’t hear, but he motioned in her direction and the newcomer nodded and headed towards her, casting a momentary glance past her towards the pit where the winch had been all but secured.
Inspector Stephen Wallace; said the man in the suit, flipping open a slim leather wallet which he took from his inside pocket.
Kim looked at the photo on the I.D. card, thinking it did the policeman scant justice. He was powerfully built, and his shirt collar looked painfully tight around his thick neck. As if reading her mind, he reached up and undid the top button, relaxing slightly as he did so. He smiled reassuringly at Kim, who despite her condition found herself returning the gesture.
‘I already know what happened,’ he told Cooper. ‘One of my men informed me over the radio. I’m sorry about Mr Swanson.’
Cooper nodded.
Wallace moved as close to the edge of the pit as he felt prudent, staring down into a seemingly bottomless maw.
‘Did you know this site was unstable?’ he asked.
‘Certainly not,’ Cooper snapped, ‘or we wouldn’t have started work here.’
‘Just asking,’ Wallace murmured quietly.
The uniformed man beside the winch gave a thumbs-up and the inspector walked around the shaft, guessing that the hole must be at least twelve feet in diameter. He pulled off his jacket, handing it to another of the waiting constables, then turned to the ambulanceman.
‘I’ll go down first,’ he said. ‘Check it out.’ He took a torch from one of his constables and held out his hand again. ‘Let me have that two-way.’
The harness which dangled from the winch was a piece of rope tied into a loop at the bottom. Wallace put one foot into it, gripping the hemp securely with his free hand, and lowered himself the first few feet into the darkness. He flicked on the torch, playing the powerful beam around the walls of the shaft. The rope creaked ominously as he was lowered.
A foul stench filled his nostrils. A fusty, cloying odour which made him gasp for air. It was cold too, and the policeman shivered involuntarily, pointing the torch down every now and then in the hope of illuminating the bottom of the shaft. The beam was quickly swallowed by the gloom.
He was lowered further. Slowly, evenly.
The smell was growing worse and Wallace coughed, trying to breathe through his mouth to minimize its effects. The stench was making him light-headed.
Fifty feet and still no sign of the bottom of the shaft.
‘Anything yet, guv?’
The voice on the two-way belonged to sergeant Bill Dayton and Wallace recognized it immediately.
‘Nothing,’ he said and coughed again.
Seventy feet.
Wallace was beginning to wonder if his men had enough rope. Just how deep was this bloody hole? The cold, like the smell, seemed to be intensifying, so much so that the inspector was now shivering uncontrollably. And yet there was no breeze. The air was unmoving, like stagnant water in a blocked well.
Eighty feet.
He shone the torch beneath him once more and, this time, it picked something out.
A few feet below, something was glistening.
‘Nearly there,’ Wallace said into the two-way.
‘Can you see Swanson?’ asked Cooper.
‘Not yet . . .’ He snapped his jaws together, cutti
ng off the sentence.
There were sounds of movement from below.
Faint rustling sounds, almost imperceptible but nevertheless present. Like . . .
Like what, Wallace thought?
He swallowed hard and shone the torch down once more.
‘Oh, Jesus’ he exclaimed.
Another couple of feet and he’d reached the bottom of the shaft. Wallace stepped out of the harness and shone his torch forward, waving a hand in front of his nose to waft away the nauseating stench that filled his nostrils. He wished he could wipe away what he saw, too.
There was a wooden spike in the centre of the pit, placed with almost mathematical precision so it was in the very middle. The stake was fully fifteen feet tall, tipped by a razor-sharp point unblunted by the passage of time.
Impaled on this spike, like an insect on a board, was Phillip Swanson.
The spike had penetrated his back just above the left scapula, tearing through his body before erupting from it at the junction of his right thigh and torso. He had landed on the spike with such momentum that his body was almost touching the ground. Blood had sprayed everywhere. It had run in thick rivulets from his nose and mouth, gushed freely from his shattered groin and pumped in huge gouts from his stomach which was torn open to reveal a tangle of internal organs which looked on the point of breaking loose. Thick spurts of odorous green bile from the pulverized gall bladder had mingled with the blood which was now caked thickly all over the corpse and the base of the sharpened pole. There were fragments of broken bone scattered about, and Swanson’s arms dangled limply on either side of him, one of them attached only by the merest thread of skin and ligament. Smashed bone glistened whitely amidst the pulped mess of flesh and blood.
Wallace knelt close to the dangling head, hearing that strange rustling once more. It took him a second to realize that it was wind hissing through Swanson’s punctured lungs. Wallace frowned. For that to be happening the man had to be alive but surely that was impossible.
He lifted the head gently, looking at the bloodied face.
Swanson’s eyes snapped open.