Gone

78

The sun had gone and the valley sat still and shocked. The aftermath of the thunder rolled away across the hillsides. Clouds of ash hung low. Birds, made of black oil, gathered on the edges of the horizon.

Dad looked wonderingly at the sky. ‘Now that,’ he murmured, ‘is what I call a storm.’

Flea was a few yards away from him. She was bitterly cold. She felt sicker than she ever had in her life. The storm had a stink to it that turned her stomach. It smelt of water and of electricity and of cooked meat. The worms in her intestines that had fed and bloated until they blocked her insides pressed on her lungs, making her chest tight.

In the new silence of the valley she began to hear other noises. A hoarse, gulping breathing. Like something struggling to stay alive. And a more muffled sound. A whimpering? She got to her feet and walked down the slope. The whimpering was coming from a bush at the bottom of the garden. As Flea got nearer she realized it was a child whimpering. Whimpering and crying.

‘Martha?’

She got nearer to the bush and saw something pale against the scorched earth, sticking out from under it.

‘Martha?’ she said cautiously. ‘Martha? Is that you?’

The crying stopped for a moment. Flea took a step closer. She saw that the white shape against the earth was a child’s foot. Wearing Martha’s shoe.

‘Please?’ The voice was sweet. Quiet. ‘Please help me.’

Flea slowly parted the bush. A face smiled up at her. She dropped the branch and took a step backwards. It wasn’t Martha but Thom, Flea’s brother. Adult Thom dressed in a little girl’s gingham dress, smiling gnomishly at her. A bow in his hair, a rag doll tucked under his arm. Flea tripped, landed on her back. Tried to kick herself away from the bush, scraping along the grass on her backside.

‘Don’t go away, Flea.’

Thom pulled his shoe off. His foot came with it. He raised it, readying it to throw.

‘No!’ She scrambled in the earth. ‘No!’

‘Ever seen a dead body? You ever seen a dead body, Flea? Ever seen one cut up?’

‘Flea?’ She turned. Someone was standing behind her. A shadowy figure that might have been Dad but might have been almost anyone. She reached out for him but as she did she realized she wasn’t in the hillside any more. She was in a crowded bar, people jostling for space around her. ‘Police,’ someone next to her was saying urgently. ‘We are the police.’ She could feel hands on her, trying to move her. Hanging low above her was a huge pendant lamp on a thick chain, with a blasted glass bowl. Someone wearing climber’s crampons and a harness had climbed up on it and was swinging it to and fro. With each oscillation it went a little faster and came a little lower, until it was so close to her face, so blinding, she had to hold out her hand to push it away.

‘Noooooo,’ she heard herself moan. ‘Noooo. Don’t.’

‘Pupils normal,’ someone said, quite close. ‘Flea?’ Someone was digging something into the lobe of her ear. Nails. Thumb and forefinger. ‘Can you hear me?’

‘Unnhhh.’ She batted at the hand on her ear. The noise of the bar had gone. She was somewhere dark. People breathing fast and echoey. ‘Sssshtop it.’

‘You’re going to be OK. I’ve got to get a line in you. Here.’ She felt someone tap her arm. Lights were flashing in her eyes. And shapes. She dragged in a lungful of air. ‘You’ll feel it but only for a moment. That’s it, just hold still for me. Good girl. You’re going to be OK.’

She felt a hand on her head. ‘That’s good, Boss. You’re doing great.’ Wellard’s voice. Raised as if he was talking to a child. What was Wellard doing here in this bar? She tried to turn to him, but he pressed her back down. ‘Stay still now.’

‘No.’ She flinched as the needle went in. Tried to pull her arm away. ‘No! It hurshts.’

‘Just hold still. Nearly there.’

‘Fugging hurts. Don’t. Hurting me.’

‘There. All over. You’ll start to feel better soon.’

She tried groggily to reach for the arm, but a hand stopped her, held her arm down.

‘Where’s the aluminium blanket?’ someone else was saying. ‘She’s a block of ice.’

Someone clipped something on to her finger. A hand worked its way down her back. Touching her neck. The blanket rustled around her. She felt hands under her neck, moving her. Something hard and warm behind her. She knew what they were doing – putting her on a spine board in case she’d got a back injury. She wanted to comment on it – to crack a joke, but her mouth was soft and slack and wouldn’t get the words out.

‘Oh, no,’ she managed. ‘Please don’t. Don’t pull. It hurts.’

‘Just trying to get her through this bit,’ a disembodied voice said. ‘How the hell did she get herself in here? It’s like Das bloody Boot.’

Someone laughed. Made a jokey ping-ping sound. Like a submarine sonar.

‘It’s not fucking funny. This place could go any time. Look at those cracks.’

‘OK, OK. Just give me a bit more room on this side.’ A jolt. A shudder. A splash of water. ‘There. Good, that’s it.’

Then Wellard’s voice again: ‘You’re doing well, Boss. Not long now. Relax. Close your eyes.’

She obeyed. Gratefully letting something sly come up in front of her vision like a third eyelid and slip her away head first into a silver screen of images. Thom, Wellard, Misty Kitson. A little cat she’d had as a child. Then Dad was next to her – holding out his hand and smiling.

‘It worked, Flea.’

‘What worked?’

‘The sweetie. It worked. Went bang, didn’t it?’

‘Yes. It worked.’

‘Last little bit now, Flea. You’ve done so well.’

She opened her eyes. About a foot away a wall was moving past her. Limestone, with ferns and green slime growing out of it. The light coming from overhead was tremendous, blinding. Her feet were pointing down, her head was up. She tried to put out her hands to steady herself, but they were strapped to her sides. Next to her she could see the face of a man in a caving helmet, lit as if a spotlight was on him, the colours vivid, each pore and line clear and dizzying, the dirt and soot smeared about his mouth. He wasn’t looking at her. He was focused down, concentrating on controlling their ascent.

‘Basket stretcher,’ she slurred. ‘I’m in a basket stretcher.’

The man looked up at her in mild surprise. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Martha,’ she said. ‘I know where he buried her. In a pit. Under the ground.’

‘What was that?’ came a voice from above. ‘What’s she on about now?’

‘Dunno. Feels sick?’ The man peered into her face. ‘You OK?’ He smiled. ‘You’re doing great. It’s OK if you’re sick. We’ve got you.’

She closed her eyes. Gave a weak laugh. ‘She’s in a pit,’ she repeated. ‘He put her body in a pit. But you can’t understand what I’m saying. Can you?’

‘I know you do,’ came the answer. ‘Don’t you worry about that. We’ve given you something for it. You’ll feel better soon.’