1983

Fifty feet down there.

I take off my coat. I take off my jacket. I lower myself down into the shaft, hands and boots upon the metal ladder -

Everything dark. Everything wet -

Everything cold, down I go.

Ten feet. Twenty feet -

Thirty feet, down I go.

Forty feet. Fifty feet -

Towards the light, I go.

Then the wall at my back ends. I turn around -

There is a passageway. There is a light.

I heave myself out of the vertical shaft into the horizontal tunnel -

It is narrow. It is made of bricks. It stretches off into the light.

I can hear strange music playing far away:

The only thing you ever learn in school is ABC -

I crawl upon my belly across the bricks towards the light -

But all I want to know about is you and me -

Crawl upon my belly across the bricks towards the light -

I went and told the teacher about the thing we found -

Upon my belly across the bricks towards the light -

But all she said to me is that you’re out of bounds -

My belly across the bricks towards the light -

Even though we broke the rule I only want to be with you -

Belly across the bricks towards the light -

School love -

Across the bricks towards the light -

School love -

The bricks towards the light -

You and I will be together -

Bricks towards the light -

End of term until forever -

Towards the light -

School love -

The light -

School love -

Light -

The music stops. The ceiling rises. There are beams of wood among the bricks.

I stagger on, arms and legs bleeding -

Stagger on through the shingle and the shale. The sound of rats here with me -

Near.

I put out my hand. I touch a shoe -

A child’s shoe, a sandal -

A child’s summer sandal. It is covered in dust -

I wipe away the dust -

Scuffed.

I put it down. I move on -

My back ripped raw from the beams, the burden.

Then the ceiling rises again. I stand upright in the shadow of a pile of rock -

I breathe. I breathe. I breathe.

I turn the corner past the pile of fallen rock and -

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

I am falling -

Falling -

Falling -

Falling:

Backward from this place -

This rotten un-fresh place -

Her voice, Mandy’s voice -

She is calling -

Calling -

Calling -

Calling:

‘This place is worst of all, underground;

The corpses and the rats -

The dragon and the owl -

Wolves be there too, the swans -

The swans all starved and dead.

Unending, this place unending;

Under the grass that grows -

Between the cracks and the stones -

The beautiful carpets -

Waiting for the others, underground.’

I am on my back -

Eyes closed -

I am dreaming -

Dreaming -

Dreaming -

Dreaming:

Underground kingdoms, animal kingdoms of pigs and badgers, worms and insect cities; white swans upon black lakes while dragons soar overhead in painted skies of silver stars and then swoop down through moonlit caverns wherein an owl guards three silent little princesses in their tiny feathered wings from the wolf that waits for them to wake -

On my back -

Eyes half open -

I am not dreaming -

I am underground:

In the underground kingdom, this animal kingdom of corpses and rats and children’s shoes, mines flooded with the dirty water of old tears, dragons tearing up burning skies, empty churches and barren wombs, the fleas, rats and dogs picking through the ruin of their bones and wings, their starved white skeletons left here to weep by the wolf -

On my back -

Eyes wide open -

Under the ground:

Lying on a bed of dying red roses and long white feathers -

Looking up at a sky of bricks painted blue, white cotton wool clouds stuck here and there among bright swinging Davy lamps -

Lying here, I watch a dark figure rise out of the ground -

Rise out of the ground into the swinging lamplight -

Into the lamplight, a hammer in his hand:

George Marsh -

A hammer in his hand, limping towards me.

I do not move. I wait for George Marsh -

A hammer in his hand, limping towards me.

I do not move. George Marsh almost upon me -

A hammer in his hand, limping towards me.

I do not move. Then I raise my right leg. I kick out hard -

Hard into his leg.

George Marsh howls. He tries to bring down the hammer -

The hammer in his hand.

I kick out hard again. Then I roll over. I rise up -

George Marsh howling, trying to stand.

But I am behind him now and I have his hammer in my hand.

Blind and black with his blood, I stop.

Under this painted sky of bricks of blue, in this one long tunnel of hate, there are two walls made up of ten narrow mirrors, ten narrow mirrors in which I can see myself -

See myself among the Christmas tree angels, the fairies and their lights, among the stars that hang from the beams, that hang and dangle among the swinging Davy lamps but never ever twinkle -

See myself among the boxes and the bags -

The shoeboxes and the shopping bags -

The cameras and the lights -

The lenses and the bulbs -

The tape recorders and the tapes -

The microphones -

The feathers and the flowers -

The tools;

I see myself and him among the tools -

The tools black with his blood.

His mouth opens and closes again.

I put the hammer down.

I stagger and crawl back the way I came, past the child’s summer sandal, through the tunnel until I come at last to the shaft -

I can see the grey light above.

I haul myself up the metal rungs towards the light, weak and fit to drop into the endless dark below.

I reach the top. I scramble out of the hole. I pull myself on to the floor of the shed. I turn on to my back, panting -

Panting and wanting out.

I use the workbench to get to my feet, my glasses gone.

Blind, I move the manhole cover back into place. I camouflage it with the plastic sacks, kicking them over the cover and the rope.

Then I hear it -

Behind me.

I stop. I turn:

There is a figure, a shape here in the shed with me now -

Quiet and hooded.

Crouched down in the corner by the workbench and the tools, hidden here among the bags of fertiliser and cement, the pots and the trays -

Small hands.

A thin shape, with black hair and raggedy clothing -

Bleeding.

It steps forward -

Arms raised in the air with the appearance of menace and implacable famine.

I reach out towards it -

Blind and groping, covered in dried black blood, I whisper: ‘Who is it?’

The figure darts to the left. I follow -

Darts to the right. I have it -

Then it is away -

Out of my arms and out of the door.

I stumble after it -

Out into the field and the rain -

But it is gone -

Gone.

I fall to my knees in the mud.

I raise up my eyes and heart, blind and raw up towards the vast grey sky and I let the coarse black rain wash away the blood -