by C. J. Tudor
‘Well, I was busy.’
‘Doing what? Is that Dad’s?’
I hurriedly put the helmet back down. ‘Yeah. So?’
‘So, what are you doing with it?’ She suddenly noticed the rucksack in my other hand. ‘Are you taking Dad’s stuff?’
I loved my sister. I really did. But, at times, she was an unbearable pain in the neck. She was like a terrier. Once she had hold of something, she just wouldn’t let go.
‘Look, I’m just borrowing it, okay? Not like he uses it any more.’
‘What are you borrowing it for?’
‘None of your business.’
She folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. A look I knew meant trouble. ‘Tell me.’
‘No.’
‘Tell me or I’ll tell Mum.’
I sighed. I was feeling tense and on edge. I didn’t really want to go back to that weird hatch in the ground. Didn’t really know why we were doing this, but I had to go through with it or I’d look like a chicken in front of the others, and now my eight-year-old sister was giving me grief.
‘Look, it’s just boring shi— … stuff, okay. We’re just going up the old mine for a bit.’
She sidled closer. ‘So why d’you need Dad’s stuff?’
I sighed again. ‘Right, if I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone else, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘We’ve found this hole that leads all the way to the centre of the earth and we’re going to climb down it because we think there’s a lost world full of dinosaurs down there.’
She glared at me. ‘You are so full of shit.’
So much for not swearing. ‘Fine. Don’t believe me then.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Fine.’
A pause. I stuffed the hat, clothes, rope and boots into my rucksack, zipped it up and hefted it on to my back.
‘Joey?’
I hated being called Joey by anyone except my sister, not least because it was such an easy insult.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Be careful.’
And then she ran back towards the house, feet bare and dirty, ponytail bouncing up and down.
I watched her go, and I’d like to say I had some shiver of premonition. That a cloud scudded across the sky carried by an ill wind. That birds rose and shrieked from the trees or a sudden crack of thunder broke the still of the evening.
But there was nothing.
That’s the problem with life. It never gives you a heads-up. Never offers you even the slightest clue that this might be an important moment. You might want to take some time, drink it in. It never lets you know that something is worth holding on to until it’s gone.
I watched Annie skip away – happy, innocent, carefree – and I had no idea that it would be the last time I would ever see her like that.
And I didn’t realize that she had taken the torch.
We stood around the hatch. Me, Fletch and Chris. Hurst hadn’t turned up yet. A part of me – a big part – hoped he wouldn’t.
We all had on boots, dark clothes and heavy jackets, aside from Chris, who looked like he had ambled along for a day at the park, in a denim jacket, jeans and trainers. I was the only one who had brought along a miner’s helmet (and the rucksack with the rope in) but everyone had torches. We were ready. Still, without any tools to prise open the hatch, we were ready for nothing.
‘Where the crap is he?’ Fletch moaned, taking out a packet of B&H.
I shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s not coming.’
Then we could all go home and forget about this stupid plan without feeling bad or looking chicken.
Chris scuffed his trainers. Fletch smoked his cigarette down to the glowing butt. I pretended to look pissed off, checking my watch but all the while feeling more and more relieved. I was just about to suggest we call it a day and leave when I heard a familiar voice call out: ‘All right, lads?’
We all turned. Hurst loped down the slope. He wasn’t alone. Marie scrambled down after him.
‘What’s she doing here?’ Chris asked.
‘She’s my girlfriend, that’s what.’
I felt my heart slide down to my oversized boots. As well as the fact that Marie was hardly dressed for pot-holing – in stonewashed jeans and stilettos – she was also clutching a carrier bag with a bottle of Diamond White poking out of the top.
‘So, we all set then?’ Hurst grinned and brandished the crowbar. His voice sounded a little slurred.
‘Ready.’ Fletch threw his cigarette butt to one side, where it glared hotly like a resentful red eye.
Chris shuffled again, like he needed the toilet or was wearing too-small shoes. He looked nervous, but not the same nervous that I felt. A sense of restless agitation radiated off him.
‘She shouldn’t be here,’ he muttered, almost to himself.
Marie glared at him. ‘Are you talking about me?’ she asked.
Despite the situation – and agreeing with Chris – I couldn’t help but notice that she looked really good tonight. Her hair was all kind of tousled and the walk here (probably the cider too) had given her cheeks a flattering pink flush. I swallowed and shuffled a bit myself.
She advanced towards Chris. ‘Are you saying I shouldn’t be here cos I’m a girl? Like I’m too pathetic to do the same stuff you lot do?’
Marie could be feisty, but there was something about her that night – again, possibly the cider – that had given her an even more confrontational edge.
Chris shrunk back. ‘No. It’s just –’
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ I said quickly. ‘Chris was just looking out for you. We don’t know what’s down there. It could be dangerous.’
She looked as if she was about to argue again. Instead, her face softened.
‘Well, that’s nice, but don’t worry. I can look after myself.’ She took the Diamond White out of the bag, twisted the cap off and took a swig.
‘And if she can’t, I’ll take care of her,’ Hurst said, grabbing first her arse and then the cider and pouring several glugs down his own throat.
‘Let’s ger’on then,’ Fletch muttered. I could tell he wasn’t happy about Marie being here either. But for different reasons. Fletch always thought of himself as Hurst’s best mate. With Marie here, he moved down a notch in the pecking order.
‘Fucking right,’ Hurst said, handing the cider back to Marie.
He swaggered over and wedged the crowbar under the metal rim of the hatch. On the first attempt, he stumbled; the crowbar slipped from his grip.
‘Shit!’
He snatched it up and stuck it under the hatch again. Again, it slipped.
‘Maybe it’s stuck,’ I said.
He scowled at me. ‘You think so, Brainiac!’ He looked between Fletch and me. ‘Help me, then?’
Reluctantly – certainly on my part – we both moved forward. Fletch got there first. He grasped the crowbar just below where Hurst was gripping it and they both bore down.
I stared at the hatch, willing it not to move. But this time there was a squeal. Rusted metal giving way after years of disuse.
‘More,’ Hurst groaned, through gritted teeth.
They pushed down again, and now I could see the hatch rising. A few inches of darkness appeared between metal and earth. My bad feeling rose with it.
‘Again,’ Hurst growled. Fletch roared, properly roared, and they shoved down once more.
The hatch rose further.
‘Grab it!’ Hurst yelled.
Chris and I bent down and grabbed the edges of the metal. Marie joined us. We all pulled. It was heavy, but not as heavy as I expected.
‘One, two, three.’
We hefted together and this time it gave, suddenly and unexpectedly. We staggered backwards as it hit the ground in a cloud of dirt and dust, with a thud that I felt resonate up through the soles of my boots.
Hurst whooped in triumph. He threw the crowbar down and high-fived Fletch. Marie grinned like a loon. Ev
en I felt a momentary rush of adrenaline. Only Chris stood by silently, his face impassive.
We all stepped forward and peered down into the hole. Fletch flicked on his torch. I adjusted the light on the miner’s helmet. I expected to stare into darkness. A pitch black barely penetrated by our lights; a long straight drop into nothing.
That wasn’t what I saw. What I saw was worse. Steps. Metal rungs stuck into the rock, like a ladder, and going straight down, way down. I couldn’t even see the bottom of them. An icy chill slithered down my spine.
‘Shit,’ Hurst muttered. ‘You were right, Doughboy. It is a way in.’
But to what? I thought. What the hell did we think we would find down there?
Hurst looked back up. His eyes gleamed. I knew that look. Flat, dangerous, crazy.
‘So who’s going first?’
A pointless question. Because –
He turned to me. ‘Thorney, you’ve got all the gear.’
Of course. I looked back down the hole. My guts churned. I didn’t want to go down there. Nothing we could find at the bottom of that long, dark shaft could be good. Nothing about any of this was good.
‘We don’t know where it goes,’ I said. ‘Those rungs look old, rusted. They could give away. It could be a massive drop.’
Fletch made a long, slow clucking noise. ‘What’s the matter, Thorney? Chicken?’
Yes. I was. Pure, feathered, egg-laying chicken.
There are times in life when you need to make a choice. To do what is right or to bow to peer pressure. If I turned and walked away now, I would be doing the sane, sensible thing – the others might even follow – but I could forget about being part of Hurst’s gang any more. I could look forward to spending the remainder of my schooldays eating lunch in a bus shelter.
Still, at least I would be alive to eat my lunch.
‘Joe?’ It was Marie. She rested her hand on my arm. She smiled, a drunk, lazy smile. ‘You don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to. It’s okay.’
That decided it. I reached up and tightened the strap on my dad’s helmet.
‘I’ll go,’ I said.
‘Ace.’ Hurst clapped me on the back. He glanced around at the others. ‘All ready?’
Nods and murmurs of agreement. But I could see the nerves on Fletch’s face. Only Hurst looked confident, buoyed up by booze and manic excitement. And Chris. Chris looked as calm as if he were taking a stroll to the shops.
‘Right. Let’s do this shit.’ Hurst grabbed his tie from the ground. He knotted it around his head and grinned. ‘First blood.’ Then, as an afterthought, he bent down and picked up the crowbar.
I stared at it, a strange, tight ball forming in my stomach. ‘What are you taking that for?’
He grinned again and slapped the crowbar against the palm of his other hand. ‘Just in case, Thorney. Just in case.’
The rungs were rusted, and narrow. I could just about get my toe on each one. They groaned and sagged as I placed my weight on them. I clung on desperately, praying that I could hold on for long enough to reach the bottom.
Above, I could hear the others coming after me, showering bits of metal and dirt down on my miner’s helmet. Even though I’d felt a bit stupid putting it on, I was glad now of the protection, and the fact that it left both my hands free for gripping.
As I descended, I counted. Ten, eleven, twelve. At nineteen, my foot missed a rung. It flailed in the air and then found purchase on solid ground. Relief flooded through me. I stepped down. I’d made it.
‘I’m at the bottom!’ I shouted.
‘What can you see?’ Hurst’s voice called down.
I looked around, the light from the miner’s helmet casting a pale, yellow glow. I was standing in a small cave. Barely big enough to hold more than half a dozen people. Aside from what looked like a few animal bones on the ground, it was empty. I wasn’t sure if I felt relieved or disappointed.
‘Not much,’ I said.
Hurst landed beside me with a thud. Fletch, Chris and Marie followed. She clambered down awkwardly in her stilettos, still clutching the carrier bag of cider.
‘Is this it?’ she said.
Fletch panned his torch around then spat on the ground. ‘Just a shitty hole.’
‘Guess this was a waste of time,’ I said, trying not to sound pleased.
Hurst scowled. ‘Fuck this. I need a piss.’
He turned to the wall. I heard him unzip his pants and the gush of urine hitting the floor. The acrid smell, strong with cider, filled the small space.
Chris was still staring around, frowning.
I glanced at him. ‘What is it?’
‘I thought there’d be something more.’
‘Well, there’s not, so –’
But he wasn’t listening. He started to circle the cave, like a dog sniffing out a bone. Suddenly, he stopped, at a point in the rock where the shadows seemed to coalesce and deepen. He bent down.
And then he was gone. I blinked. What the hell?
‘Where’d he go?’ Marie asked.
Hurst zipped up his jeans and turned. ‘Where’s Doughboy?’
‘Here,’ a disembodied voice called.
I trained my light in the direction of the voice. And now I saw it. A gap in the rock. About four feet high, and narrow. Easy to miss, unless you were looking hard. Or you knew it was there.
‘It goes deeper!’ Chris called from the darkness. ‘There are more steps.’
‘That’s more fucking like it!’ Hurst exclaimed.
He shoved me out of the way and squeezed straight through after Chris. After a moment’s hesitation, and another swig of cider, Marie followed, and then Fletch.
I sighed, inwardly cursing Chris, and bent down to go after them. My head clanged against the rock. The miner’s helmet. It was too wide. The light wavered and went out. Crap. I must have knocked the battery. I edged backwards and took the helmet off. I’d have to carry it sideways. I started to shuffle through and then hesitated. I thought I’d heard something. A scraping and a rattle of stones. The sound had come from behind me, from the metal rungs we’d climbed down.
I looked around, but without the light all I could see were shadows and dancing spots in front of my eyes.
‘Hey?’ I called. ‘Anyone there?’
Silence.
Stupid, Joe. There was no one there. The noise was probably just the wind, gusting down the open hatch. How could there be anyone here? No one knew about the hatch. No one knew we were here. No one at all.
Ain’t nobody here but us chickens, I thought, a little crazily, remembering an old song my nan used to play. Ain’t nobody here at all.
I gave the darkness a final searching glance. Then I turned, squeezed through the gap and started down after the others.
20
‘Good weekend?’
Beth emerges at my side from amidst a throng of pupils.
She is looking fresh-faced and perky and all the things I generally hate to see in someone at just before eight-thirty on a Monday morning.
I look at her from beneath eyelids weighted with lead. ‘Just dandy.’
She squints at me more closely. ‘Really? Cos you look like crap.’
I shuffle along the corridor. ‘That’s what a good weekend will do for you.’
‘Yeah. Guess when you get to your age the hangovers take longer to get over.’
‘My age?’
‘You know, the middle. Stuff of crisis, spread and prostate exams.’
‘You really are a little ray of sunshine on a dismal Monday morning, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, I haven’t got to my best stuff yet.’
‘Let’s pretend you’ve peaked.’
She winks. ‘Oh, you’d know when I’ve peaked.’
‘Doubtful. At my age.’
She chuckles, low and hearty, and actually, it does go a tiny way to lightening my current dark mood.
So why did she lie?
I’m just trying to work out a way to ask he
r when a Year 9 with boy-band hair and a uniform on the borderline of acceptable skids around the corner, almost colliding with us, before he manages to gather in his momentum and screech to a halt.
‘Anyone mention no running in the corridors?’ I say briskly.
‘Sorry, sir, miss, but you need to go to the toilets.’
‘I already went, thanks.’
Beth throws me a look.
‘What’s up?’ she asks.
He fidgets nervously. ‘I think you should just go and see, miss.’
‘We need more than that,’ I say.
‘It’s Hurst – he’s got some kid in there and –’ He falters. No pupil likes being a grass.
‘Okay. We’re on it.’ I nod my head to indicate he can go. ‘And don’t worry – you never saw a thing.’
Gratefully, he hurries off down the corridor.
I look at Beth. She sighs. ‘There goes my coffee.’
I can hear muffled shouts and laughter as we approach. I push at the door. Someone is holding it shut from the other side.
‘Piss off. It’s engaged.’
‘Not any more it isn’t.’
I shove the door with my shoulder and we burst in. The kid holding the door stumbles into the urinals. I take in the scene. Three of Hurst’s cronies stand in a loose semicircle. Hurst kneels over a kid on the floor, a Tupperware box at his side. I grab his arm and haul him up.
‘You. Stand over there.’
I turn to the kid on the floor. My heart sinks. Marcus. Of course it is.
‘Are you okay?’
He nods. Tries to sit up, can’t quite make it. I hold out a hand but he doesn’t take it. There’s something odd about his mouth.
‘Marcus. Talk to me. Are you okay?’
Suddenly, he clutches his stomach, lurches over and retches. Half-eaten toast spews on to the cracked and stained tiles, along with something else. A mangled mess of dark bodies and stringy legs. One of them drags itself up and tries to crawl away. I feel my own stomach give a lurch. Daddy-long-legs.
I pick up the Tupperware box. It is still half full of the spindly insects. They’ve been making Marcus eat them. For a moment, I can’t see. White spots flood my vision.
‘Whose idea?’ I ask. Like I don’t know.