by West Camel
But maybe Derek had. She stared at the dark back an arm’s length ahead of her. Derek had found his way down the alley leading to Deborah’s house. And if Sam hadn’t been there that night, would Derek have wandered all the way to the creek and perhaps have met Deborah herself? How would things have played out then?
She was already at the end of the second reel, and had to tie on a third. Her fingers, neatly making a tight knot, didn’t seem to be hers.
They continued, Sam lighting the way ahead, searching out the route; Anne trailing the thread behind her, gently tugging to check it was not broken.
She heard a noise.
A rasping moan.
It came from ahead of them; there was a corner between them and it. The torchlight formed a vertical pool on the mud wall, showing streams of water running down. The puddles here were wider and deeper than those she had stepped across so far.
Sam stopped, but then rushed ahead immediately. ‘It’s him,’ he said, and Anne felt she had said it too.
Sam turned the corner first. It was the stretch where he and Deborah had pulled the scrap of tapestry out. But now the passage was blocked by a heap of mud and rubble, and a beam that had held the ceiling up was slanting across it. Beneath, a pale face, a neck and one arm were winding out of the slime.
Sam had seen him only twice, but even covered in mud, even in the juddering light of the torch, he saw it was Nigel. He was trapped.
Anne was beside him. ‘Oh fuck.’
Sam stepped forwards, his foot sinking into the soil. Nigel’s eyes rolled, bulging as he spoke, but his words weren’t clear.
Sam crouched down, not sure what he was going to do, and Nigel grabbed at him – holding his knee, then his thigh, with long, strong fingers. Sam gripped his hand. It was cold and slippery. But Nigel held on, giving his wrist a sharp pull, so that he lost his balance and fell. He was on top of Nigel now; his face and hands in the mud. It was rich-smelling – he could taste the rot, the eons of decomposition. The thought trickled through his mind that he could stay here, laid out, the ceiling precarious above him, his mouth filled with earth.
But Nigel writhed and moaned underneath him and Anne cried out, ‘Sam! You OK? Get up!’ She was pulling him and shouting, ‘Nigel, it’s Anne. You know me. We’re here to get you out.’
Sam staggered upright; yes, they were here to get Nigel out.
He spat and coughed. ‘We’ll have to try to dig.’
‘With what? Is it safe?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll have to do what we can with our hands.’
He put the torch on the floor, lighting up Nigel’s contorted face. Nigel heaved his long body, creating movements in the earth around him, like some kind of grub, Sam thought, trying to break out of its casing.
He knelt and began shovelling wet handfuls from around Nigel’s shoulders and torso. Nigel clutched at him with his free hand and Sam had to bat it away. ‘Let us dig.’
Anne was on Nigel’s other side and he grabbed at her too, bellowing recognition.
‘Yes, it’s Anne. We’re here to get you out,’ she said again. She looked like she might say more but she went to work instead, as Nigel prattled on unintelligibly.
Sam was repulsed by him – by the elongation of all his features, by his pallid skin streaked with slime and mud. His T-shirt was rucked up under his armpits and, as they removed the dirt, his greenish trunk was revealed – an undulating length of flesh with too many ribs.
Sam saw him beaten in the alley; he saw him slinking through the traffic in Creek Road; he imagined him bounding up and down the High Street, in and out of the pubs, ducking into the side streets that led into the estates; avoiding this person he owed money to or that person he’d sold a dodgy deal. Sam despised him. They should leave him trapped down here.
Nigel let out a straining shout, a hoarse ‘Yes’; it was like a hideous orgasm. He pulled out the arm that had been trapped and pushed himself up on both hands, stretching his extended torso upwards, his loose mouth gaping like a wet reptile. Then he vomited – a mixture of mud and bile. Sam felt it splash on his arms and face and felt his own stomach turn over. He shifted his position, so he was digging at Nigel’s back.
He wanted to run, to grasp the thread Anne had been trailing behind her, skim along the corridors in the pitch-black and get back to the outside, to the normal world. He would find Derek, kiss his heavy face, his soft eyelids, his thick lips, feel the strong bite of his white teeth, and say, ‘You were right. Nigel is revolting. Hurt him. Punish him. He deserves it all.’
Sam stopped digging, horrified at himself. He was panting. Saliva dripped out of his mouth and he didn’t bother to wipe it away. He grasped at the mud that covered Nigel’s buttocks, closing his fists around handfuls of it, so it formed dense lumps. He threw them hard at the wall and they broke, scattering like shot across the tunnel floor.
Nigel repeated his stretch, arching his back and moaning, ‘Dig more. Dig more. She’s holding my legs.’
Sam exchanged looks with Anne.
‘I’m not holding anything,’ she said, then continued to shovel.
‘I’m there, I’m there, I’m there.’ Nigel arched and strained. His whole upper body was free.
Anne sprang back.
‘I’m going to pull him.’ She bent over, but it seemed an effort for her to touch his body. Sam saw her close her eyes and thrust her coated hands under his armpits.
Sam dragged soil and stones off Nigel’s legs and his extraordinary length slid and sucked out of the earth. The mud under Sam gave way and he tumbled onto the floor of the tunnel.
Pushing himself up, he saw that Nigel was nearly out. He was screaming now, ‘Pull, pull. She’s holding on. Fucking get her off me!’
Sam took one arm as Anne took the other and, with a grunting effort, Nigel’s scrabbling, bending, endless legs appeared.
Nigel was half-kneeling, but one leg was straight, the ankle and foot still buried. Sam grabbed at the thin thigh and tugged. It came, but heavily, as though a weight were attached to it. Had Mel and Derek chained him to something? He set his jaw and plunged his hands into the mud, following the shin, then clamping them around the ankle. He leaned back, pulling with his body weight. The trapped foot began to move and, as it did so – just for a shred of a second – Sam felt something cool clutch at his clenched hands.
But before he was able to question that it was anything more than the sucking mud, Nigel wrenched himself forwards with incredible strength, and Sam was tumbled onto the floor again.
As Nigel broke free and lunged towards her, Anne staggered back, holding him off with crossed arms. And then she saw, behind him in the great valley she and Sam had excavated, pieces of cloth – layers of material mixed up with the mud, picked out by the sideways beam of the torch. They were all of a colour, but here and there were the suggestions of a design, the hints of careful stitching.
‘What the fuck is all that?’ she said, refusing for a moment to accept the evidence of her eyes.
Nigel was standing beside her, rocking from one foot to another, like a child that needs to shit. ‘She was talking to me. She wanted me to help her.’ He hummed in time to his rocking. ‘She said she just wanted to die.’
Anne looked at his mashed mouth, then down at Sam, still on the floor. ‘It can’t be…?’
Sam shook his head. ‘It’s not.’ He looked almost angry. ‘Deborah’s at home in bed. Where we left her.’
‘They knew she was down here,’ Nigel interrupted. ‘That’s why they brought me here – so she could grab me and bring the ceiling down. He’s sick, that Mel. Sick. Sick. Sick.’ His rocking was becoming violent and he slapped his face and chest. ‘She was asking me to help her die.’
Anne grabbed his arms. ‘Stop it, Nigel. There’s no one there. You’re safe now. We’re taking you out of here.’ She forced herself to wipe her hand across his face, removing some of the snot and slime. ‘You’re going home, Nigel. To Lia. You’ve got to look after her and the n
ew baby when it comes.’ She rubbed Nigel’s back, shuddering. ‘Sam, we have to get him out of here.’
Nigel had begun to rock again and was making a gurgling noise. ‘She was begging me to help her die. Begging me.’
Sam was sitting immobile on the floor, staring at them with an open mouth. Why didn’t he get up? thought Anne.
‘Deborah said she found someone down here, didn’t she?’ she said, her voice high and desperate. ‘She said that it was an old woman who gave her all this.’ She flung her arm at the mess of earth and fabric.
At last Sam scrambled to his feet, ‘A hundred years ago. He’s just hallucinating. There’s no one here. Look.’ He picked up the torch and cast it over the trough Nigel’s body had left.
There was a gushing of water somewhere further down the tunnel, followed by slaps and splashing, and she felt the floor shiver slightly.
‘It’s happening again,’ Nigel whined, and wrenched himself out of Anne’s grasp.
Anne grabbed at him. ‘Wait, you’ll get lost. We know the way out.’ She turned to Sam, shaking as Nigel tried to pull away from her. ‘Come on, I can’t hold him.’
Sam hesitated. He told himself that he had imagined a hand around his. Yet he could still feel its grip. A part of the ceiling just a few metres away from him fell to the floor with a dull, wet thump. He turned and followed Anne at a run.
Chapter 30: Deborah, 1950
‘I wasn’t sure at first what the crowd of people in wellingtons were doing: slopping shovels of mud into buckets, spreading it out on tarpaulin on a wharf on the Greenwich bank, then picking through it with small trowels. At one low tide they sank planks into the bed to make a sort of tank, and a poor young lad spent most of his day working a hand pump to keep the water out.
‘But after a few days watching them from my window, I realised they were on a dig. I can see Mrs Clyffe’s raised eyebrows as she says the word. Alright for those as have time for such things in Egypt or the Orient, I hear her saying, but there’s some of us who have stockings to darn and dinners to cook for sick babies.
‘But I had plenty of time to watch from my upstairs window. I even fancied offering my help – though to do what I didn’t know.
‘It was a Sunday when I first met Mr Mellor. I was coming home in the boat, when I caught sight of him standing thigh-deep in the water beside the creek wall a little upstream from my house. He was waving his hands at a train passing over the bridge in the kind of semaphore the lightermen on the river used to use. The rest of his gang were nowhere to be seen.
‘And then he turned and saw me.
‘It was a strange twisting: he screwed his top half around, but didn’t move his legs, and he gave a shout and swung his arms about in that same odd way. I wasn’t such a good sailor in those days, and the shock of him noticing me meant I let the wind out of the sail – it wrinkled up and I felt a pull as the keel dragged through the muddy riverbed. As I righted the boat, I began to make out his shouts. He was stuck; and chancing another glance over at him, I realised that his wheeling arms weren’t signals – he was trying to keep his balance, standing in rubber waders that were close to being flooded. I think he thought I hadn’t seen him, because his shouts were getting louder and he slapped the water, calling, “Here, here.” It was almost funny in such a big man.
‘I called back, “I’ll be over directly. You stay put.” As if he wouldn’t have moved if he could.
‘I managed to point the prow at him and when I was near I let down the sail, pulled out an oar and paddled until the boat ground into the bed a few feet from where he was standing. Now I could see that he was well and truly sunk into the mud – the only way I was going to get him out was to pull.
‘“Grab the boat,” I said, and he fell forwards and grasped hold of the gunwales of the bow. I paddled backwards as strongly as I could and he wriggled about until his legs started to come out of his waders. I spread my weight, but the boat kicked and jerked about, so we still shipped plenty of water. At last it gave a great bounce – his top half was in and we were slipping stern first towards the Deptford bank, while he kicked his feet as if he were just learning to swim.
‘I rowed us to the wall underneath my window and clamped onto the hoop above my head, so he could pull his whole body into the boat. He was wet through by now and he clearly wasn’t a sailor – forever darting his arms out to steady himself and keeping his feet too close together.
‘“Sit down and stay still,” I said, rather too sharply, perhaps. But he did as he was told and the boat stopped rocking.
‘“I must thank you, Mrs…” he offered me a large, dripping hand.
‘“Miss Wybrow, Deborah.”
‘“Jacob Mellor,” he grinned, and showed me his open palms.
‘“You’re from the dig, aren’t you? Not the most sensible of things to do – wading the creek on your own.” I smiled, though, trying to make him feel better about his awkwardness.
‘“Very true, Miss Wybrow. And I’m tremendously grateful that you happened to be sailing up here on a Sunday. Now, can I trouble you to take me to where I can get out?”
‘I paused before I answered. He smiled so much as he spoke, it was like his even white teeth were always on display.
‘“But you’re soaking.” I nodded at his wet socks, sagging off his feet. “You can’t go home like that. Let me see if I’ve got something for you. A few more minutes and the tide will be high enough for us to go inside.” I pointed up at my front door and saw the surprise on his face.
‘“That’s your house?”
‘“It belonged to some friends of mine before the war. Some of their socks and boots are still knocking around. There may even be some trousers if you need them.”
‘“I shouldn’t bother you. I can suffer damp clothes if you can take me to the other bank.”
‘“No, no. You don’t want wet feet.” I heard a fussing old dear in my voice – how had that happened in these few years? “I’ll make some tea and give you a pair of dry socks. No bother at all.”
‘Mr Mellor scanned the house again and then fixed me with his blue eyes. “Alright. If you’re sure it’s no trouble.”
‘“A little company will be very welcome.” I felt my face flush, so I busied myself with tidying the sail away, coiling some rope, then uncoiling it again and fastening us tighter to the wall.
‘“So have you found anything to interest you in the creek?” I asked. “I’d think it’s mostly rubbish that got chucked in here.”
‘“The things people throw away tell more stories than the history books they write, in my opinion. There’s a causeway just upstream from here.” He pointed and ducked his head a little, looking past the railway bridge. “We’ve found some interesting pottery shards and wood fragments. The mud preserves them, you see.”
‘The wind was cool on my face, but I was all of a sudden very hot under my shawl. “A causeway?”
‘“Yes. Before there was a bridge here, we believe someone – pre-Roman – built a causeway to make crossing the ford easier at low tide.”
‘“I suppose without a bridge they would have had to go right round to Lewisham.”
‘“Exactly. And the ford was treacherous – because of its depth. And because of the mud, as I’ve just found out! We think many a traveller on his way to Kent came a cropper at the Deep Ford.”
‘“Really? How can you know?” We could have climbed out of the boat by now – it was a spring tide and it was coming in fast, but Mr Mellor didn’t seem to have noticed.
‘“We’ve found groups of objects all piled together – not spread out as they would be if they’d been discarded. This suggests people getting stuck, and not being fortunate enough to have a pre-Roman Grace Darling coming to their rescue!” He threw a lanky arm towards me like an actor, and I felt hot all over again.
‘“And what were you looking for today, all by yourself?”
‘Now Mr Mellor looked hot: he was fair with blond hair, fading to grey, and his
blush spread down his neck. “I’m afraid I must seem rather hapless. I’ve lost my pocket watch – a gift from my father and to him from his father before him. The only place I think it can be is here in the creek. I hope my team will find it at the next low tide, though I doubt it will survive the water.”
‘“Who knows? If it is here, another archaeologist will dig it up in fifty or a hundred or a thousand years’ time and will be telling someone else about the treacherous Deep Ford.” I stood up, pleased with my little speech, and throwing Mr Mellor off balance so he gripped at the thwart. “I think we’re high enough to get out now,” I said. “And your search might not have been wasted – I have a few finds of my own you might be interested in.”
‘“I’ll be very happy to look at them.” Some people might have taken his tone as down-talking; but I was grateful to have someone take even a little notice, so I let it pass and showed him how to haul himself up onto the ledge in front of my door.
‘With his long legs and arms, he stuck to the wall like a spider; but inside, he left wet footprints on my clean flags, so while I put the kettle on and stoked the fire, I had him pull his socks off and hook them on the stove. Ducking under the stairs into the wrecked back room to find him something to wear, I wondered when I had last seen a man’s naked foot. Such long toes, which, for some reason, he held off the floor, and red marks creasing the hairy bridges.
‘By the time I had dug out a pair of boots – I thought Jack’s would be more his size than Digby’s – he had filled the teapot himself and was warming his hands round a mug.