Pearced (52 page)

Suddenly there's a massive explosion from upstairs we stand, knocked suddenly out of our reverie, small pieces of rock and debris are shaken onto us from the ceiling high above. We smell cordite again, this time more pungent than before.  “Well done Stan, got any of them do you think?” Asks Nigel, checking his gun is loaded, gun! When did he get that?

“I set two charges” he says pointing, “didn’t want to waste the stuff.” OK, and what!

He pats his sack, “one at head level, and one at groin with a delay.”  Ouch!  “So the first man gets his head mashed and the second,  who'll undoubtedly storm past thinking that’s all there is, and in his greed comes through the door will get his groin trashed.”

There's always someone worse off than yourself.

Stan looks satisfied, as we hear cries a shouts from above, “mashed and trashed.” He smiles. That sounds friendlier than it actually is, I don't want any more details.  “An explosion!” Nigel explains pushing his glasses back up his nose, “great idea.” He shuffles forward to perch on a rock we all glance at each other.

“He's a strange old bugger isn’t he?” Asks James in my ear, he smells of Pete's perfume.

“Don’t judge a man by the cover, eh Nigel?” Says Stan.

“Just like the old days eh Stan?” Chuckles the professor.

“You two know each other?” I ask incredulously.

Liza stands slowly, a look of confusion overcomes her.  “So, you’re not a Professor?” Speaks Liza clearly stunned, trying to keep up, to make sense of everything.

“Oh yes I am,” Nigel replies, “I am a real Professor with all the qualifications accounted to my name, real as I stand here.” His spectacles in one hand a handkerchief in the other, “my cover needed to be convincing.” Cover? This is brilliant!

“Cover?” Asks Daniel, bloody hell, this is awesome.

“That's a clever disguise, I didn't see that coming.” Which for me is a feeling I’m not altogether used to, and this is my story!

“A disguise yes, but like all the most believable lies, it's shrouded in truth.” He wipes his glasses again.  “To get into some of the most hostile and uninhabitable countries in the world, nobody looks twice at a fuddy old Professor, I get my permissions and visas in the usual way for an archaeologist, and can slink around unnoticed by any authorities, it's great for meeting women too!” he returns his handkerchief to his pocket.  He winks, having cleaned his glasses again and returning them to his nose.

“The perfect cover!” He now seems far more animated than before too, I am seriously impressed.

“Indeed,” he stands up this time less bent and aged looking, and looking much taller. Or is it just my imagination?

“Shall we proceed? That little trick will only hold them back for a short while, I counted twelve chaps up there, assuming the two blown up can’t follow we're still talking about ten men coming down those stairs soon. We need a plan.”

“Ambush.” Stan says.

”Agree.” snaps Nigel.

“They won't come down together, they'll be in small groups, if they're smart, and they won’t want to run into a trap again.” Replies Graham.  And with that, the three 'commando's' group together and in low whispered voices make their plan.

“Ex-army buddies, did you know about this?” I ask Daniel in a hushed tone, I can be secretive too, army indeed.

“I knew Stan is ex SAS, he has a services tattoo, and he's told me a few stories that only now am I beginning to believe,” his hands fly into the air gesticulating,  “I knew he and my Dad were acquainted, but not that they served together.”

“And the Prof. Nigel? Where does he fit in?” Liza adds, “ I work with this man every day, for over five years I’ve known him, and I just thought he was a weird science geek,” Nigel chuckles loudly at that.

“Good hearing too eh?” Whispers Kurt.

“I’m a real Professor, I swapped a sniper rifle for a trowel, it’ still dirty work” he winks.

“Let’s get moving before those upstairs start their descent into the dark depths of 'Devil's Pit'.” He says, “And, let’s have a cup of tea as soon as we can too eh?” Everyone agrees.   This gives us two goals to work toward, survive and drink tea, the maths works for me, I pat my bag, happy, the KitKats are there, check.  Behind us Stan is unravelling what looks like wire from a reel out of his bag, 'buzz, bzzz' he has a small rechargeable drill in there too with a handy little torch on the top, I thought only brownies had to be prepared. 

With eyelets attached each side of the stair steps, the thin almost transparent wire is fixed each end and one end has a small grey box where the ends of the wire have gone.  He has a small torch between his teeth to work in the dark, 'click, snip' Stan has spliced the ends of the wires and crimped them to the connectors in the grey box.  He switches it on and a tiny led red light appears, and it shuttered from immediately above by a cowling, so coming down nobody will see it.  Nigel has arranged some rocks around the box and has thrown a handful of smaller rocks over the bottom three stone steps, their teamwork is surprising and reassuring.

Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.

“That'll trip the buggers up, and hopefully get a few at once.” Graham says almost to himself.  Barbara looks pale, but she clearly trusts her husband, she gives him a peck on the cheek, “never got that treatment in the Gulf eh?” Was that golf or gulf, I didn't quite hear?

We take a nod from Stan as a silent indication to carry on, and as before we follow the water as it drips further into the darkness, damper and colder than I remember. We cross the cave toward the huge iron door, with giant rivets holding its layers in place, a frame, a front cover and massive hinges too.  “Let’s go.” Says Stan, and he pulls the old padlock from his cargo pocket where he put it before, I am amazed at the degree of preparation.  We all pile through into the darkness filled huge cavity beyond, we can hear how big the space is, then the lights buzz and pop to half-life as before as Kurt yanks the crusty lever down to 'ON'.

Swinging back and forth on long rusty heavy chains, a similar gauge to my Landrover recovery chains, with a winch I’d guess, are the mesh protected bulkhead lamps.  Some flicker, some fade and come back on but there’s enough light to see the tubular iron curved railing all around the pit below,  the empty great darkness, still and quiet, I wonder how deep it is, stop thinking about it.  I snap the band at my wrist, fine for now.  Pete takes my hand, she knows I don’t like this, “you can do this honey, I know you can.” I hope she’s right.

Another explosion breaks through the dark and still air, louder this time, shouting, our booby trap has worked, (such a friendly sounding name for such a diabolical trap: booby), and now I wonder how many are left following us, I try hard to stop wondering.  There’s no time and even less inclination to feel remorse for the injuries we inflict on these killers, we are running for our lives and only our cunning will get is out of this bloody and dark place.  Once we are all through Nigel slides down a heavy diagonal metal strap across the back of the door, riveted to an upright that allows it to pivot, and fixes it in place with the padlock, using aligned eyelets designed for this purpose.

Be prepared, Brownies rock!

Safely inside the pit mouth, we decide the metal door behind us will cause sufficient problems for our pursuers as to afford us a little time for a quick cup of tea.  I decide it'll be nicer to make it in the office kitchen, plus I recall there’s ginger nuts there too.  In the little kitchen I find everything I need to make tea for our posse, larger in number than before, some people will have to use plastic cups.  Yuk, but needs must. We sit drinking our tea and passing round the biscuits, like we're at camp waiting for the cross-country to begin. 

Barbara has placed the biscuits on a plate, she won't eat them from the packet, I bet she frowns at those who cut a bread roll at the table too or use the wrong knife. She wouldn't have survived Pony Club camp that's for sure.  When we hear angry voices from beyond the door, shouting and screaming, and what sounds like the butt of a gun, metal on metal bashing hard at the surface of the door.  The voices are loud and echoey reflecting around this cavernous empty space with a roof far above us, muffled through a very thick bulkhead door, but we still feel the anger in its tone.    Someone outside that door is cross he can't get through. A chill runs down my spine, even though we can’t actually hear the words.  Whoever is left outside that door, they won’t want a game of scrabble and a chocolate biscuit with whoever they catch. That reminds me, where
are
the chocolate biscuits?

Who are these people?

I am looking with horror at the huge metal bucket that is to take us to the bottom of the pit, and I try to gather some strength to ask how deep it is.    “It'll take about twenty minutes to get to the floor below,” Barbara tells me over her teacup still sipping the dark brew, though not as dark as I’d have liked it we need to ration the bags now. She is staring at me, and that's just rude. 

Once we've all finished Graham explains the safety features of the bucket lift: “There are no safety features of this bucket lift.” He begins to say, “don't lean out, don't move around once seated, stay still or it'll twist and yaw like a boat on choppy water.” He explains, “
That said it’s scary as hell down there but fun too, there's no light on the way down all we'll have are the torches, let’s go.”  Strange I think, that none of us appear nervous, perhaps we’ve had an adventure full of incidents that now every turn is another part of the tale, we’ve reached the point where nothing is surprising.

On the diagonal, 5 flying changes every second stride, that'll do it, silence, yes.

I pat my flask of Jack Daniels, check.

Chapter thirty-seven, terrifying Tuesday
:
5thnovember2013 the bucket

The next part I find surprising, and everything thus-far has appeared quite mundane eh?

We move to the banister where it's hinged, Graham pulls a lever out of the wall, it pivots and becomes a handle.  He cranks the handle with a series of clicks, it turns easily in his hand and as he winds it we hear the cranks and the teeth of the wheel moving together, rustily clicking, as the pulley system begins to winch the bucket towards us. He smiles as he does it, so how bad can it be?  Really? 

BH, half-pass to the left.

We hear banging from outside the door, they are persistently trying to get through, and I’m hoping the door is as tough as it looks. But in this story, few things are what they seem eh?

HC collected trot.

Closer and closer the bucket comes within reach. 'Bang!' We hear rapid gunfire and, shouting, these men begin to hate each other, greed will do that.  We have no idea what’s really happened behind us in the tunnels, but it's putting strain on their relationships, with some members perhaps dead or injured their group dynamic will have altered, putting further strain on them.  I take a welcome soft velvet swig of warm brown bourbon. Better.  “There’s just this one way down?” I ask wiping my hand across my mouth, it's not pretty, I’d be the first to agree, and if her Majesty were here I’d get a clip around the ear from my Mum.  But I’m not altogether myself when under stress, and who is? Wondering if I really have to get into that miners bucket. I bloody well hope not, but hoping isn't doing is it?

“There’s an old iron ladder riveted into the walls all the way down to the bottom,” Graham tells me, “wouldn’t trust it though, it’s decayed with damp.” That's settled then.

“And it'd take hours of climbing in the dark to get to the ground.” Barbara adds, it's then I decide the bucket sounds like fun.  I offer my flask around, Mum taught us to share.  Surprised everyone takes a sip maybe I'm not the only bucket-shy member of this group, difference is, why hide it?  I shake my flask once returned, and what was once a happily mostly filed weighty container, is now unnervingly light.

Note to self, ignore some ill advice about sharing.

Bloody hell.

“I was thinking about our friends on the other side of the door,” I indicate with my head whilst still holding my torch on the bucket and my flask in the other hand. “If they decide to follow, they can?” I sort of ask.  I check my phone, not for the first time, still no signal, bugger, I’d really like to speak to Mum.

A small explosion pops a dent in the door from the other side, “they're serious, but that door will take a lot of abuse before it gives us up.” Says Nigel, he swings the hinged section of the balustrade away and hooks it back on itself with a reassuringly loud ‘clink’.

I take Daniels hand and squeeze it hard, he smiles at me “come, sit with me, let’s go,” he pulls me close to him and together we step across the gap into the bucket.  We stand as central as we can to balance the device, it hangs on two great bolted strong metal straps in a square 'U' shape from several heavy ship grade anchor weight chains.   It swivels slightly and the feeling that it could tip us up never escapes me, because of course it’s used to swivelling, it’s probably how the mined gold or people are dumped out or loaded in, at one end.  We embark quickly and quietly, distribute ourselves equidistant around the perimeter of the oval shape container and sit slowly on a flimsy looking shelf, welded and bolted to the perimeter, about forty centimetres from its bottom.  It’s like a scarier version of those happy little spinning tea cups with rosy pink flowers painted along the side sitting in a cheery saucer that you ride in at the fair, and I
really
don’t like those.  Mad horses yes, little teacups swirling to piped music, I don’t like.  And don't get me started on carousels either, pitifully skewered painted horses forced to go round and round for eternity. Well, that's just cruel.