The Quarry (32 page)

Paul leans forward in his seat. ‘Fuck me. You don’t realise how big it is from up top, do you?’

‘They’ve removed about twenty million tons of rock from here,’ I tell him. I think that was the latest figure I heard quoted. Whatever; Paul looks suitably impressed.

We’re in second gear and going quite slowly, but the car’s meeting lots of grey and khaki-coloured puddles, deeper dips and hollows, and the sort of random, jagged stones and small boulders on the track that a truck wouldn’t notice but which a car struggles to cope with; we’re getting bounced around a lot.

Paul’s holding the dashboard and looking a little pale. ‘You okay?’ I ask him.

He stares out through the windscreen, swallows, nods. ‘I’ve been better,’ he admits.

I slow down, go into first gear. The bumping and jostling becomes less violent. When we get to the top of the ramp that leads to the shelf around the base of the main cliff, the road levels out and the surface becomes more even; we can do nearly twenty without getting thrown around too much. Big boulders the size of hatchbacks line the cliff edge like outsize traffic bollards. Ahead, at the far end of the quarry, the bit where the little landslide took place is just about visible if you know what you’re looking for. The wall of the house is a small straight line across the skyline, its tilted roofs like dark tents against the clouds, sheltering behind the trees, though the house disappears as we get closer to the far south wall.

Paul looks relieved as we get out of the car. Little piles of earth and turf and dirty-looking stones lie at the foot of the cliff, beneath the site of the landslide. We both have a look round but there’s nothing man-made lying around down here. I’m not even sure from this angle whether I can tell which shelf I decided might hold the thing that might or might not be the tape. I un-bungee the ladder from the roof-rack and slide it out to maximum extension. We lever it up against the cliff, roughly in the middle of the landslip. We make sure both feet are firm and slightly embedded in the track, then Paul holds the ladder while I climb it.

It all looks quite different from when I was dangling on the end of a rope earlier. I get to the top, take a good look around. The ledge I saw before is, I think, about three metres away to my left, but a metre higher than the top reach of the ladder.

I climb back down. ‘It’s over this way,’ I tell Paul.

We reposition the ladder, step back and wait while some earth and small stones shower down, rattling and bouncing, and then I go up again.

‘Should have brought a hard hat,’ Paul says.

The ledge is a bit more than a metre above. I climb again until I’m standing on the topmost rung of the ladder. The cliff is pretty rough and there are numerous holds so it’s not difficult.

‘Fuck’s sake, Kit, be careful,’ Paul yells.

‘Yeah!’ I shout. ‘Don’t worry!’ Which sounds a bit pointless, but I suppose you have to say something.

My head’s still not quite at ledge level. I look down, find footholds, and use the earth-spattered lip of the ledge as a handhold to steady myself as I push up.

‘Jesus, Kit!’ Paul shouts.

‘Just keep the ladder where it is,’ I tell him, trying to sound reassuring.

I feel for another couple of footholds. I find only one but that should be enough. There’s a straggly-looking but sturdy-feeling bush growing on the ledge. I use this to steady myself, push up again and slide chest-first onto the ledge, which is about half a metre wide and sloped with dirt.

I hold onto the bush with one hand, find a handhold on the cliff behind with the other, and sort of pull and wriggle myself round until I’m sitting.

The straight-edged white objects I saw from further up this morning are still plausibly some bleached bones from a fallen lamb or a large bird; or something man-made, maybe plastic. Whatever they are, they’re about another metre away along the ledge to the left, past and partly underneath another misshapen, dead-looking bush.

I’m sort of half sat on the narrow ledge now, legs hanging over the edge, bum balanced on the angle of soft earth. This would be a lot easier if there hadn’t been a landslip, turning the ledge from a flat shelf to a slippy, unstable slope. If I’m to get over there I’ll have to bump my way along on my backside for a metre, over more slidey earth and past this other bush. I think I can probably do it, but there’s nothing much to grab at if I start to slip, apart from this lifeless-looking shrub. Or I could turn around again – a bit dangerous in itself – push up to stand on the ledge and then sidle along. Then have to get back down to this sort of level to pick the tape up. Or kick it over the edge.

I bend at the waist, look down and shout, ‘Can you reposition the ladder again? Metre that way?’ I nod.

‘Okay. Hold on.’

Paul struggles to lever the ladder away from the cliff. I’m starting to worry he’ll pull it back and lose control and it’ll land on the car, or go whanging over the cliff behind and down into the deepest level of the quarry.

‘Just sort of turn it,’ I tell him.

‘What?’

This takes some explaining. We get the ladder to where I want it eventually, just under the relevant bit. I bump along in that direction, digging little heel-of-the-hand holds as I go. My hands are getting absolutely filthy. Getting past the dried-up bush is slightly exciting, too.

‘What can you see?’ Paul shouts.

‘Well,’ I shout back down, ‘one corner of a white plastic TDK-branded VHS tape case, partially covered with earth.’

‘Well, yeah!’ Paul shouts.

With my left leg dangling only half a metre above the end of the ladder and one hand holding onto a two-fingers-wide handhold, I swing over and plunge my hand into the earth, just shy of where it needs to be. I bump closer, having to trust to the bush now. I think it feels trustworthy. I’ve already opened one big gilet pocket, for the tape.

Finally, I pull the tape case out of the loose earth around it.

‘Well, it’s not empty!’ I shout to Paul. I bump back a little along the dirt-smothered ledge, get my hand back to the good hold on the rock, then risk letting go – trusting the compacted earth beneath my bum to hold me on the ledge – and using both hands I slide the cassette most of the way out.

It’s a Sony inside, not TDK. It isn’t an ordinary VHS tape; it feels unbalanced somehow and half of it has a sort of smoke-brown window over it, with a smaller tape visible inside.

I shove the cassette back into the case and stick the case into the big outer pocket of my gilet.

‘Got it!’

‘Brilliant!’

‘Okay,’ I shout. ‘Hold it steady. Coming down.’

I edge back a little the way I came, about a bum-width. My camo trousers are going to be filthy as well.

‘What are you doing?’ Paul shouts.

‘Just getting in position. Keep the ladder where it is.’

I get as firm a grip as I can with one hand, then turn round, using the other hand to grab a hold on the cliff behind. My legs should be directly above the ladder; I can’t look to check, but now I can control myself better.

‘Is the ladder beneath my feet?’ I shout.

‘Yes!’ Paul hollers back.

I lower myself slowly, swinging my feet from side to side a little to feel for the ladder. Clonk. Got it.

‘You’re there!’ Paul yells.

I get both feet on the ladder and start stepping down, a rung at a time, until I can grasp the sides of the ladder again.

I pull the tape case from my pocket, then the cassette from inside the case. ‘That what you’re looking for?’ I ask Paul.

He nods, takes it. ‘Could well be.’ He slides a switch on one surface, tries it a few more times. ‘Hmm. Jammed. Surgery may be required.’

I start bringing the ladder down, walking the bottom further out from the cliff so it clatters down the rock face. ‘Suppose that makes me a professional climber, now,’ I tell him.

‘Yeah,’ Paul says. ‘Don’t worry, Kit. You’ll get your money.’

‘What are you going to do now? Do we tell people?’

‘Let me take a quick look, assuming I can get it working, and then, yes, we’ll tell people.’

‘Okay.’

I get the ladder flat on the ground, unclip it and collapse it. We put it back on the roof-rack. I take some time to brush off all the dirt that I can from my clothes but then put an old bin bag between my bum and the Volvo’s seat anyway. The Volvo’s driver’s seat is kind of stained and filthy already, frankly, but there’s no need to get it totally minging. I use a rag to clean my hands as best I can.

Paul looks a little healthier and happier as we head out of the quarry. He sits with the tape on his lap. Before we get to the quarry buildings and the gate he’s taken out his wallet and extracted five fifty-pound notes, folding them and depositing them into my gilet’s left breast pocket.

‘Bonus for the hair-raisingly risky climbing,’ he explains.

I smile. ‘Ta.’

‘So,’ he says, after we’re clear of the quarry approach track and back on the public road. ‘How do we think the tape got there?’

I have a think about this. ‘That’s a very good question,’ I tell him. I am extremely pleased with this answer.

‘Any thoughts?’ Paul asks.

‘About how it got there?’

‘Yeah, Kit,’ Paul says, ‘that’s kind of what I thought we were currently talking about.’

‘Well, a few,’ I say, reminding myself not to get too cocky. ‘It’s just … I don’t want to accuse anybody.’

‘Strictly between us, then,’ he says. ‘I’ll give you my word it won’t go any further.’

‘Your word?’ I ask him. I’m not even entirely sure he’s being serious, though he looks like he is. I don’t think anybody’s ever offered me their word on something before. It sounds so old-fashioned.

‘Yes, my word, Kit. Believe it or not, that actually counts for something, for some of us. Try not to gasp.’

‘Okay. But it’s not just that; I’m not even sure whether the landslip happened first or afterwards.’

‘Do we … think somebody buried the tape? On the far side of the wall? Is that …?’

‘Not very likely. I think it must have been thrown over the wall.’

‘And … who would do that?’ Paul asks.

‘Not me,’ I tell him.

‘You must have theories,’ he says.

‘Hmm …’

‘So … on balance. Take a guess; was the tape thrown over before the landslip, or after?’

‘I think … after, from the way it was lying,’ I tell him. ‘Though more stuff had sort of dropped on top of it too, I think, so it’s hard to be certain. Don’t think it had been there all that long. It’s not faded with sunshine or anything. Well, apart from the spine, compared to the front and back, but that’ll have happened in the house, I suppose, when it was on a shelf.’

I guide the Volvo through the narrow lanes, coming to the T-junction where we turn left and head up the road that leads to the house. The tree branches are arched above like too many thin, tented fingers.

‘Wonder why someone would want to throw it away,’ Paul says, as we pull out of the junction.

‘I can’t imagine,’ I tell him. I’m guessing he knows this is an outright lie and I’m just trying to be discreet, or protect somebody.

‘Where the fuck have you been?’

‘Took longer than expected,’ I tell Guy.

Paul has gone back to his outhouse. I have a big backlog of boxes and assorted bits and pieces to run past Guy and either take out to the car – I’ve left it parked closer, to make this easier – or dump on the steadily growing bonfire. Which is bigger than it was when we left; obviously some people have been adding to it themselves without waiting for me to do the donkey work.

I go back to emptying the house, shuttling the rubbish onto the bonfire and the recycling into the Volvo.

There’s a break for tea and bacon sarnies. ‘Think I’ll take a little snooze, after,’ Paul tells people. ‘Just an hour or so.’

‘Have you finished with the outhouse?’ Ali asks. She’s busy carefully stripping the little glistening lengths of fat from the bacon rashers, depositing them at the side of her plate.

I’d have cut them off with scissors before grilling if she’d said, or done her rashers longer to turn the fat into something more like crackling or even just let her have trimmed medallions if she’d wanted, but she never said. She uses her nails to remove the last bits of fat, then rebuilds her sandwich. It’ll be cold now. If enough people do this I’d happily grill up the remains till they’re crispy and have them myself, all lovely and crunchy in a folded bit of bread.

Paul isn’t really going to have a snooze; he’s going to use the time in his room to try to get the mini-VHS tape working and play it in the VHS player he brought with him.

‘Yup,’ Paul tells Ali, yawning. ‘All done. Just a last few boxes for Kit to take away.’

This isn’t entirely true; there are still a few drawers to be looked through but I’m pretty sure I know what’s in all of them and I’ve agreed to check them and then do whatever needs doing; won’t take long.

‘Is there any more brown sauce?’ Haze asks.

‘Think that’s it done,’ I tell him.

‘Good bacon sarnies,’ Hol says, not looking at me.

‘I’ll be glad to get shot of you gannets,’ Guy says. ‘Thought Kit ate a lot. Christ.’ Guy insisted on a full-size sandwich like everybody else, though I know he won’t finish it. He’s taken only two bites.

‘On our way home tomorrow, bright and early,’ Rob tells him.

‘This has been fun,’ Pris says, smiling, looking round at all of us. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘Yeah,’ Guy says, bringing his sarnie up towards his mouth and focusing on it. ‘Just like the old days, except with me dying.’ He puts the sandwich back down on his plate again.

Ali takes a long-drawn-in breath and fixes her gaze at the table; Rob purses his lips and restirs his tea. Hol is looking blankly off to one side. Haze appears fascinated by Guy’s sandwich.

‘Oh, Guy,’ Pris says, her face pinched. ‘Honey, is there really nothing—’

‘No. Nothing,’ Guy says. ‘Tried everything.’

‘Have you tried alternative or holistic—’

‘No. Not fucking going to, either. You can keep that bollocks. Whatever I’ve got, the fucker can keep growing despite industrial fucking doses of gamma radiation and laugh in the fucking face of chemicals they originally used in mustard gas. I therefore find the prospect of it being turned around by tiny amounts of infinitely diluted water or the power of closing one’s eyes in a nice dark room and thinking about pink ponies somewhat unlikely, to say the least.’